I had a dream about an old friend, Jean, who has not been on my mind for some time. Half-asleep, I had been wrestling my thoughts, trapped in the daily motions that make me most anxious. Jean's intervention was comforting.

She is going to graduate college in a few months, she is going to conclude her long childhood. In the dream, she explained to me many things that she has accomplished at school.

There was a lot for her to explain, because Jean and I rarely speak now.

When we were in high school, we worked together every day, building sets for plays during the school year, and working construction in the summers.

In the dream, she showed me photos of her artwork, big things she had made for her studies. Some were collaborations with older women that had names that resembled her own - Joan, Juana.

Similar names, similar minds. Old wisdoms, which were new to Jean. Old friends, which were new to me. Yet I was thankful that she had so much to tell me, and that she spoke with great enthusiasm.

And of course, Jean told me other things - hours of things. They filled my mind.

We went to her school (to see her works), we went to her parents' house, and we went to my childhood home. We kissed good-bye with random passion.

The sun rose lazy in the window. Upon waking, I say to myself, "I should write this all down, otherwise I won't remember it by breakfast. I can send it to Jean."

But I know that Jean would not appreciate reading this. It has been a while.

The fantastic disorder, the delving truth - these things, only the dreamer understands.

A sole witness.

I am an appreciative audience.

Yet my heart is strained, because I cannot tell her this. A story of us, wrought by sleep. A kindly story.

It makes me smile.

Only delicately, just a little bit. But for a long time.

So what's the point in telling you, Jean.

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