No more than the residue of a day, unless otherwise ordained by God for a prophesy in due season, is the dream. A thing is rendered in the shape of emotion, a memory of fading lights and the liquid edge of time. We might call it a vision of the night. Try to fathom its ways and write the meaning of it, telling others what magnificent things your mind has formed, and the loss will likely be apparent to all. It evaporated last night, and is no longer.
Dream sorrow might recall the day, even the hour, of death. Or, it could just as easily recreate a holiday gathering from long ago, with the room becoming a forest and familiar relatives disappearing, transforming into the shape of memory and the shadows of forgotten time. The dream picture, so clear in the ordinary spaces of life, once given to the night becomes no more than a flavor or a whisper of ideas, a rich sensation soon to disappear. And then comes the morning.