The Note

I dreamed, of course, several dreams, but they’re broken today and heap in my head like pieces of broken glass.

One dream fragment is best remembered. It’s dim and busy with the red-black-amber noisy ambiance of a late night club. I’m handed a note. I don’t see who hands it to me but I thank them. The note is folded. My full name is typed in twelve pitch Times New Roman font in black on the front. I’m surprised, pleased, and giddy to be receiving this note. Unfolding it, I read my future history in typewritten paragraphs.

And that thrills me. I’m so excited. But now, I remember none of it. I only remember that I was handed a note with my name typed on it.