Dreams die quietly, with little to-do. They fail to acknowledge your investment of time or tears. They fail to appreciate your hard work. You woke up this morning as you have woken up every other morning; then, in the afternoon, notice arrives in the mail:
I am dead. Dream another dream, if you dare.
And so, broken, you sit in front of a machine, another man's dream realized, and you gently, hesitantly, tap out . . . something. Plastic keys, arbitrary letters and words, are rallied together to make some sense. But even while they do, they don't. Not to you.
Ash and dust. Beauty? Where are you?
A nice letter, all in all. Clean and concise. Impersonal. The envelope lies torn open on the table. The letter has been neatly refolded and replaced. The dream too. Maybe dreams are not for you.