As we lie down to sleep the world turns half away through ninety dark degrees; the bureau lies on the wall and thoughts that were recumbent in the day rise as the others fall, stand up and make a forest of thick-set trees. The armored cars of dreams, contrived to let us do so many a dangerous thing, are chugging at its edge all camouflaged and ready to go through the swiftest streams, or up a ledge of crumbling shale, while plates and trappings ring. -Through turret-slits we saw the crumbs or pebbles that lay below the riveted flanks on the green forest floor, like those the clever children placed by day and followed to their door one night, at least; and in the ugly tanks we tracked them all the night. Sometimes they disappeared, dissolving in the moss, sometimes we went too fast and ground them underneath. How stupidly we steered until the night was past and never found out where the cottage was. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/elizabeth-bishop
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Dean's Dream Journal
I'm often inspired by dreams. "How to Remember Your Dreams" will help you with:
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