So I was in a small, white building (roundish) and Tim Russert was speaking informally from a raised pulpit. “That’s weird. Tim Russert is dead,” I said to myself. And I looked around. Everyone in the room was someone who’d died — some famous, some known only to me. Odd.
Dream
How Shakespearean . . . or am I thinking of Stephen King?
It’s only a dream. Or one can get all Carl Jung about it? Or Platonic.
I so wish I could remember my dreams….
Whatever it means, I like it.