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.