From the Department of Thoughts, Prayers, Hopes, Dreams, and Dandelion Puffs

Why do the contents of dreams seem so fascinating when you’re scribbling them down by moonlight, and so dull once you’re properly awake?

This is what I wrote last night (and I almost didn’t, because I was comfy, I was warm, and I knew I’d regret it in the morning), but here—here. I convinced myself, I de-nested myself, and see?

Name on window across the street. Friend lives there, but not really.

I remember the dream. I’m not puzzled by what I wrote, only by how I could possibly have mistaken it for something worth remembering. It was a bland little snippet of a thing: I looked out my window and saw my name in green letters on a window across the way—not just my name, but a message: HELLO, SOCAR. I KNOW YOU’RE LOOKING. HA, HA.

Somehow, I knew who lived there: a friend from the Internet, another illustrator. I woke up with a nice feeling, the sense of having a friend close by, and an in-joke—and that was all. Nothing more.

Maybe it was the feeling I wanted to hang onto.

Also, I need baking soda. That, I might want to remember.

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