Strange dreams

When I woke up this morning I remembered my dream, vividly and in great detail. As I woke to the demands of my cat I told myself I would write it down right away, fresh as it was on my memory.
But the house chores needed me, feeding the cat, making the bed, discovering there is no coffee . . . So, I forgot until now. Now that the memory has faded, now that the images are misty and half gone, but not totally gone.
My dad’s cousin was there, aunt Irene, laying in the sofa, talking in that half-dazed voice of hers. also my grandmother and . . . There was something about a baby, but what was it? What? . . . A dream is a dream as life is a dream, a dream with a purpose.

The purpose of dreaming and therefore living.


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