I dreamed that my book was on the shelf, finished and beautifully displayed... it was a smoky dark blue. A fine piece it was, though I can't be sure exactly what it was about because I have not written it yet. Though, I'm sure it contained all of the answers to life's mysteries (and probably whether death is the very center of gravity, about which I've been wondering), and I knew everything I needed to know at that moment in order to complete the book I'm writing now. I was excited, thinking about how I'd finish the details on this one... how it would make a fine follow-up act to the first book. I stepped up into the air and flew... over the houses... circling the bleached hay fields... skimming the rooftops and riding the plain gray sky. From up there, I could see how all the plots would come together... the whole thing and not just part if it. For the moment, I forgot all of my sins and relished the joy of flight. To maintain altitude, just want it and move toward it. I landed... and to prove to myself that I could, I did it again.