I wonder if having a new pillow will reshape my dreams, the way certain spices eaten for supper color them, making them exotic, warm, or agitated? The way Marley’s ghost was nothing more than “an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato”? I’ve found that when I fall asleep listening to an audiobook on my iPod, the words of the writer, the voice of the reader, both weave themselves into my dreams. Or music, too, lends them its mood or tone.
Like bits of twig and hair and colored thread formed into bird nests, this all is such stuff as dreams are made on.
image: Odilon Redon, Flower Clouds