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Sometime in the night the sandman sent me someone else's dream, which I will savor and ponder. That- and the clean, fresh air  woke me.

I don't even want to try and write it down because that never works. I might fixate on details like the young man's bright blue eyes, red-rimmed with the struggle to not cry, his blondish hair, six months overgrown beyond what must have been something stylish. His loss so clear on his face that I didn't even ask what had become of  his children's mother. An Ikea cafeteria of all places.

It's easy to paint with words. Much more difficult to capture the tone and tenor a dream; the dreams that leave you wondering why. They had to have been intended for another so why bother.

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