Stealth Creativity

This morning seemed like any other, sun up, squirrels on the roof, garbage bins clattering on the asphalt, dude next door on his Harley rattling windows and setting off car alarms as he roars off to work. You know, the regular stuff. Then I glanced at the notebook I keep by the side of my bed, where I record the occasional dream.
   There's a page devoted to a dream I don't remember having, and I don't recall writing anything down .
   So, not only do I not remember the dream - in itself not unusual, and kind of the point of writing them down - but I don't remember waking up to take the notes. The handwriting is mine, so nobody crept in and filled out a page in my notebook while I slumbered, but I absolutely do not remember waking up to write anything down. Which took me quite a while, evidently, since the description is a page long. In the past, even if I didn't remember the dream I remembered taking the notes.
   This disturbs me. I wonder what else I might be doing in my sleep that I don't remember. Like fighting crime. Dressed as a bat. Or a ninja. Criminals are a superstitious, cowardly lot, so either disguise would strike fear in their hearts. Or it could be something less noble entirely, like snacking, or washing dishes. Probably snacking.
   I think I'm going to rig my apartment with tripwires and cameras, to capture my nocturnal wanderings. The same equipment those guys used to get pictures of the snow leopard. Then I can finally see what I've been up to.

note: the dream was nothing special, it involved my first car - a green four-door 1972 Chevelle, best car ever - and the Guadalupe River in Texas. Evidently the car fell off the bridge into the river. Analyze that one.