...we are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
~W.S. The Tempest
The most beautiful woman I ever knew walked into my dream last night. Or rather, she stood outside a window in the sunshine and beckoned, smiling a smile that was warm and open, not guarded as it always was.
I went outside to meet her, whereupon she took my arm and led me through empty streets past untenanted houses to the place she called home. It had a kitchen with a table, and a bedroom with a bed.
And so we sat on the bed and talked of nothing memorable, but her eyes said ‘welcome to my world at last.’
* * *
The day that followed was dull and damp and dreary. There was a peevish chill in the air, typical of the sort of day which fails in the task of being properly cold, but which feels all the more frigid for its very lack of identity.