I rarely recall much of any detail about my dreams anymore.
They dissipate the moment my conscious awareness reboots and comes back online.
This morning was different.
In living color, playing out before me as though I were an actor in a lead role of a theater production.
The edges of the stage, the curtain, invisible.
Immersed, I experienced every emotion, every touch, heard every word and musical note, with clarity and realism that I cannot begin to describe. I think I might have even experienced a few smells, too. Talk about engaging all the senses.
I know it was a dream.
But it didn't feel like one.
And the words came pouring forth from my fingers before the fuel of caffeinated beverage was past my lips. I rarely write 600 words in ten minutes. Hell if I didn't this morning.
Good morning, new muse. Go sit in the corner and strum your guitar and keep all the other muses in some kind of passive state of non-frenzy while I finish this other project. And then I will play with you. And you can channel your rage into your riffs and scream of wrong-doing, or whatever the hell this story is you want to tell me.