Every so often I have a dream that was obviously intended for someone else. Last night’s tour of the unconscious mind was a case in point.
My dream self popped up in a hole-in-the-wall greasy-spoon diner somewhere in New York City.
The place was little more than a narrow closet: four or five two-tops running along one wall, a battered white enamel display case stocked with an assortment of plastic-wrapped mystery-meals, and a narrow aisle in between. At the back was the cash register and a doorway leading to the kitchen. Continue reading