Photo Essay: Chasing the Dream | Canoe & Kayak Magazine
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It's almost the only dream I have now, or at least the only dream I remember. Usually when I wake, there's a soothing blackness in my mind, my first memory that of the night before, turning over in bed, breathing against my pillow. I'm sure I do dream, but their cycle must be such that I wake too long after the last one to remember it. If I remember anything at all, it's a color and confusion that quickly evaporates as I'm still getting up on an elbow, reaching blindly for my water glass.
essay-on-criticism | EServer Poetry
When I first started having the dream, once I realized there were posters with writers' names along the street, I looked for my own name, not expecting to find it, and not. But after the initial disappointment it was pleasant enough to just wander, seeing the other writers' names, most of whom I didn't recognize (the two famous names I recognized from last night's dream, for whatever reason, were Stephen King and Mark Twain. With Twain, his name was above "A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court").