I had a dream about you. I had superhuman strength, not unlike I possess when I’m awake, and you wanted me to enter and win the World’s Strongest Man competition. I told you my super strength should be used for the good of humanity, as I tossed a beer keg 50 meters to earn the kiss of a female admirer, and then I said I’m going to become a baker in a colorful tent, because the people need bread and circuses to survive all the corruption in the world.
When the white arm rests upon the knee it is a triangle; now it is upright - a column; now a fountain, falling. It makes no sign, it does not beckon, it does not see us. Behind it roars the sea. It is beyond our reach. Yet there I venture. There I go to replenish my emptiness, to stretch my nights and fill them fuller and fuller with dreams. And for a second even now, even here, I reach my object and say, “Wander no more. All is trial and make-believe. Here is the end.
And then I wonder who I'm looking at. All these people must have their dreams, too. And maybe that's why they're on the bus to New York City. Maybe they want to be dancers, or singers, or run big companies, or sell inventions. It's strange to try to think of everyone else like that, like my brain isn't big enough to hold all their stories together inside my head, and it makes me feel wobbly to try and imagine all the hopes and dreams that fill up this bus.
I had a dream about you. Half the people wanted to kill me, and half the people wanted me as their President. It was up to you whether I lived or reigned, and you made the logical choice—you chose not to choose. You exercised your right to not exercise your right. I ended up killing all the people who wanted to kill me, and in my next election I received 100% of the votes with 100% turnout. Even you showed up to vote, probably because you agreed with my policies.
On est forcé d'être des enfants toute sa vie. C'est pour ça que ceux qui veulent devenir des hommes sont malheureux. Vous voulez chanter l'opéra? On rit de vous. Vous voulez vous conduire en monsieur avec les femmes? Elles vous traitent de tapette si vous n'êtes pas champion avec des muscles gros comme ça. Vous voulez avoir une bonne position dans un bureau? La compétence, c'est toujours les autres qui l'ont.
Now he slept soundly through the nights, and often he dreamed of trains, and often of one particular train: He was on it; he could smell the coal smoke; a world went by. And then he was standing in that world as the sound of the train died away. A frail familiarity in these scenes hinted to him that they came from his childhood. Sometimes he woke to hear the sound of the Spokane International fading up the valley and realized he’d been hearing the locomotive as he dreamed.
Story to me is life. It’s purpose. We as humans have an the opportunity and obligation to live the most truthful story ever told, unfortunately so few ever live truthfully. They don’t follow their dreams and live lives filled with regrets and “what ifs”. I make it my purpose to pursue the dreams and life that I want. It’s very hard, but at the end of the day, when people read the story of my life, they will say, “He was true to himself”.
If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended,That you have but slumbered hereWhile these visions did appear.And this weak and idle theme,No more yielding but a dream,Gentles, do not reprehend:If you pardon, we will mend:And, as I am an honest Puck,If we have unearned luckNow to 'scape the serpent's tongue,We will make amends ere long;Else the Puck a liar call;So, good night unto you all.Give me your hands, if we be friends,And Robin shall restore amends.
I had a dream about you. We were both in the finals at the World Cuddling Championships, and my partner was my cat, Cap’n “The Sweetness” Kintz, and yours was a Teddy Bear named Teddy. While Teddy’s body could be manipulated in ways that would earn you style points with the judges, he was lacking the personality of a person, which The Sweetness certainly has. In the end we won, partly because we were better cuddlers, but mostly because I bribed the judges.
I'm so glad you're here, Anne,' said Miss Lavendar, nibbling at her candy. 'If you weren't I should be blue…very blue…almost navy blue. Dreams and make-believes are all very well in the daytime and the sunshine, but when dark and storm come they fail to satisfy. One wants real things then. But you don't know this…seventeen never knows it. At seventeen dreams do satisfy because you think the realities are waiting for you further on.
Did she ever feel nostalgia for any of her girlhood dreams? But life was made up of a succession of dreams, some few to be realized, most to be set aside as time went on, one or two to persist for a lifetime. It was knowing when to abandon a dream, perhaps, that mattered and distinguished the successful people in life from the sad, embittered persons who never moved on from the first of life's great disappointments. Or from the airy dreamers who never really lived life at all.
The dream has a very striking way of dealing with the category of opposites and contradictions. This is simply disregarded. To the dream 'No' does not seem to exist. In particular, it prefers to draw opposites together into a unity or to represent them as one. Indeed, it also takes the liberty of representing some random element by its wished-for opposite, so that at first one cannot tell which of the possible poles is meant positively or negatively in the dream-thoughts.
I had a dream about you. You claimed Orafouraville was a town, and I declared it a city. You said it was one resident shy of being a city, and I said, “So what if that one resident is shy? Do shy people not count as citizens? Do introverts not pay taxes?” You tried to claim that you were talking about population size and classifications on categories—nomenclature, and nothing more. But I saw you for what you were—a bigoted small-minded big-city elitist.
…there are simply no words that would be worthy of describing their encounter. And if any narrator ever tries to come up with some details, it would be only to arouse the readers’ lust, and would not do justice to what happened that night between Nini and the young woman whose dream he invaded. It was just a glorious experience of two bodies melting in one, two souls uniting in one, two hearts beating with the same beat, and two spirits becoming one. Yes, it was a dream.
Hail, happiness, then, and after happiness, hail not those dreams which bloat the sharp image as spotted mirrors do the face in a country-inn parlour; dreams which splinter the whole and tear us asunder and wound us and split us apart in the night when we would sleep; but sleep, sleep, so deep that all shapes are ground to dust of infinite softness, water of dimness inscrutable, and there, folded, shrouded, like a mummy, like a moth, prone let us lie on the sand at the bottom of sleep.
