As Insubstancial As A Dream

Last night I had one of those strange dreams which remain with you on waking. I dream most nights but rarely remember my dreams. On this occasion I fell into conversation with an author outside one of those trendy coffee places which have proliferated in London and other cities. He told me that every day he could be found sipping coffee at this establishment and went on to name several novels he had authored. I remember, while dreaming clearly recollecting the titles of the books he had authored, however, on waking their titles flew away to be remembered no more.

In my dream I felt envious that this man could enjoy a life of ease while I worked in a 9-5 occupation. I haven’t written anything substancial for a while so perhaps my dream is telling me that I need to start scribbling again. The ocean going yacht and the country cottage beckons …