If my dreams grew on trees I would probably run out of them. Fortunately they do not grow on trees. I like the concept that dreams represent the mind's way of dumping the random minutae and detritus having accumulated from a day's worth of consciousness. If this is the case, I am a walking Islip. I remember far too much.

What often strikes me is how seemingly insignificant things pop-up in my dreams, things I experienced then immediately forgot. Last weekend I drove to Chicago with a friend. It had been warm when we left St. Louis but through the windows of the car it seemed windy and possibly chilly in Chicago. At a stoplight downtown I glanced to my left and noticed a group of people standing on the corner waiting for the light to change. One girl wore a pair of cut-off blue jeans. She didn't look exceedingly warm, but she wasn't shivering. I turned to my friend and told him that it probably wasn't too cold outside; we could get by with a jacket or a sweater. I thought nothing more of that crowd of people and our conversation.