The other night, I had a dream. It wasn’t just any old dream, though. It was extraordinary in several respects.
For one, I rarely even remember my dreams. On average, I recall maybe one or two dreams per month, and even then, they are often fleeting, swift seabirds flying undetected, beyond the radar screen of my consciousness. I might remember them for a few minutes, perhaps an hour at the outside. The dream I had the other night, though, remains fresh and vibrant in my mind, holding on and unwilling to let go.
It started innocuously enough. I was driving along a dirt road, somewhere in the wooded hills of rural Vermont, where I’ve lived for the past dozen years. It was evening, the light of day fading, slowly, into dusk. The road was isolated, off the beaten path–not another car in sight. I had my window rolled down, and…
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