Dreaming

It's important to note. I don't dream.
Not precisely true I suppose, since if I didn't dream I'd be dead by now. True story.
I don't remember my dreams. Eleven times out of ten.
So of course, the rare time where a dream sticks with me long enough to write it down is a little like finding an unsoiled twenty dollar bill in a ditch. It's worth the trouble to grab it, even if it means getting your feet a little wet. Speaking of wet feet. Well more on that later.

So without beating around the bush (too much punning)

So there's this forest. Tall, spindly trees. The leaves are black, shrivelled, hanging from the branches like a bunch of corpses or something. It's rained recently. The whole place smells, damp. Earthy.

The trees get closer together the further in I get, until it's just a black wall of branches and trunks.

And then it starts to rain, and I wake up.

The drought seems to have ended. It rained last night.