It’s beyond my control. It’s much more than an it. I’ve no idea how many images it consists of. I wrote down what I remembered. My first cup of morning coffee was moments away. The few sentences that I wrote in my dream journal would seem to say that it was a brief dream. How can I know? The unconscious has its own secrets. Four of us are seated at an outdoor table. A picnic table in a park comes to mind. I open a bottle of red wine. The man dressed in a dark suit, seated across from me, doesn’t drink this kind of wine. The two others with us are talking. The man in the dark suit pours himself a glass and his face makes it clear what he thinks. Why did I bring a cheap bottle of wine? Last night’s dream makes no sense. These sentences make sense to me only because I know the language in which they’re written. Dreams have a language, symbols, which makes understanding them a creative experience. I must wait for meaning to emerge. It’s afternoon. I don’t want to impress the man in the dark suit. I’m angry with him. I want him to drink my wine, the bottles I buy on sale. This last sentence calms me. I’m in control in the dream. I feel like preparing myself an afternoon coffee. The dream makes its own kind of sense.