The Cold Light of Morning

Normally I don't tell people about my own dreams or encourage them to tell me theirs, because I think there's something about the personal nature of dreams that makes hearing about someone else's excruciatingly boring. Often, while hearing someone recount this long story about long tunnels and flying grandfathers and such, I've wished for death—the teller's or mine, either way would be fine. But last night I dreamed I had somehow discovered some simple principles that, I suddenly realized, could be developed into a management-consultant training program deal that would make me millions. You know, the kind of simple, commonsense principles for thinking and planning that aren't commonly understood at all. And when I woke up? Nuthin.' Totally gone.

Of course, there was nothing there at all, I'm sure. But it felt like there was. So for once, I held it in my hands, the thing that would make my fortune, my "Maple Leaf Rag," my Pet Rock—and then, alas, gone. There's a certain desolate feeling in losing a fortune that was totally an illusion in the first place.