I had a dream about you. We were in a canoe, and we were paddling across the desert. You said you were thirsty, and I pointed to the sand that surrounded us and said, “No, I will not urinate in your mouth.” At that point I woke up, because I realized I really had to pee—and get a drink of water.
I had a dream about you. You’d never been in an elevator before, and I’d never been in love. I said I could help you, and you said you could help me. I got excited because you were so beautiful, but I was quickly let down when you introduced me to your friend, who looked like a horse and sang like Miley Cyrus.
Groping blindly in the darkness, he sank between the white mounds of cool feathers and slept as he fell, across the bed or with his head downward, pushing deep into the softness of the pillows, as if in sleep he wanted to drill through, to explore completely, that powerful massif of feather bedding rising out of the night.
I had this dream about you last night. We were still married. I was giving you a haircut, like I always did, being careful to trim around the scar on the back of your head. I’m sorry I sometimes forgot it and left you with a bald spot. And, I’m sorry we didn’t work out. But you look pretty happy on Instagram.
Before everything happened I wished i had double voice box like a song bird so I could sing two songs at once, the way a bird can harmonize with itself. I wanted to sing crystal clear notes. I wanted to sing them one after anther in ascending order. And at the same time I wanted to let another fountain of notes descend from my heart.
I had a dream about you. The Thursdays were back, and with them they brought hope. They were selling, and everybody was buying. I tried telling the people they shouldn’t buy, because if they just wait 24 hours, the product would be free. What the Thursdays sold was both priceless and worthless, depending on when you acquired it.
I had a dream about you. You asked how long I’ve loved you, and I replied, “About 5,280 feet.” It was true. Ever since the car ran out of gas a mile back, and we were forced to walk, I’ve been thinking a lot about life, love, and how much I wish the first gas station we see has mashed-potato-flavored bubblegum.
I've crossed some kind of invisible line. I feel as if I've come to a place I never thought I'd have to come to. And I don't know how I got here. It's a strange place. It's a place where a little harmless dreaming and then some sleepy, early-morning talk has led me into considerations of death and annihilation.
I had a dream about you. I was a shoe salesman and you had no feet. I needed to make a sale or I’d be fired, and you needed reliable transportation. I suggested you buy shoes from me and for me, and in return I’d give you a piggyback ride. In the end you bought a new purse, and I ended up punching my boss in his face.
A tired man lay down his headin a dusty room so dim,and for so long his wife did shakeand yell to waken him.Meanwhile his thoughts, his dreams, did stirof sandy, red bullfights,of powder-blasts in the airand carnival delights.Yet still his wife was in despairin a dusty room so dim,for she knew death was a whorenot far from tempting him.
Dreaminess is, among other things, a state of suspended recognition, and a response to too much useless and complicated factuality. Its symptoms can be a long-term interest in the weather, or a sustained soaring feeling, or a bout of the stares that you sometimes can not even know about except in retrospect, when the time may seem fogged.
Perhaps he still hopes. If there’s any justice in the Gods’ injustice, then may they let us keep our dreams, even when they’re impossible, and may our dreams be happy, even when they’re trivial....Every dream is the same dream, for they’re all dreams. Let the Gods change my dreams, but not my gift for dreaming.
I had a dream about you. The seasons changed, but you did not. You were the same old person you always were, only older. And I was the same old person I always was, only younger. Yes, I’d discovered the Fountain of Youth, and since we were such old friends, I was going to let you have a swig for 10% off the suggested retail price.
Dreaming is not only an act of communication; it is also an aesthetic activity, a game of the imagination, a game that is a value in itself. Our dreams prove that to imagine - to dream about things that have not happened - is among mankind’s deepest needs. Herein lies the danger. If dreams were beautiful, they would quickly be forgotten.
Her silent singing wrapped around the story she was telling herself, which she extended further every night on the deck. (Averill often told herself stories-- the activity seemed to her as unavoidable as dreaming.) Her singing was a barrier set between the world in her head and the world outside, between her body and the onslaught of the stars.
