SUBLIME. A DREAM

I had a dream last night.  In it, I walked through the most beautiful garden I have ever seen.  On each occasion I was accompanied by the same companion, who was unknown.  The first time I walked through, my companion asked if I'd like her to recite a famous poem about the garden, which she did; word for word I heard it in my dream, and it was a wonderful poem.  The second time my companion offered me a piece of prose famously attached to the garden, and the same thing happened again.  Word for word she recited it, and somewhere in the back of my head I knew this was a dream, which meant the words on both occasions were mine.  I had to have been making them up and, in my dream at least, my writing was sublime.

We all have a capacity beyond the daily grind.  But how to get it out of us?  That's the thing.