I got up, wrote some, then decided to go back to bed for a while. It was almost 6:45 when I awoke for the second time, light already filtering into the house. Between the time I went back to sleep and arose for the day, I had an odd dream. As soon as I got up again, I wrote down as much as I could remember; it was one of those dreams in which there are seemingly disconnected stretches of activity, but for some reason they seem part of the same dream.
This dream was odd, even as my dreams go. I was an unwilling, helpless hanger-on in this dream. I didn’t speak; I just watched and listened and went along for the ride, as it were.
As I was documenting the dream, I had a thought: is there such a genre as autobiographic fantasy memoir? If not, maybe I could create one. I could call it Unauthorized Fantasy Autobiography of a Known Serial Dreamer. Or maybe not.