I'm sitting here beneath the moon on a rock facing the lake, watching the waves with a pad of paper turned to a blank page on which I might record my thoughts. The moonlight skips gingerly across the water and I look around as soft snowflakes the size of silver dollars flutter down around me out of the inky black sky. From my earphones, Will Oldham
croons something about idle hands into my ears.
Suddenly, a deafening crash comes from two train cars connecting at the station behind me and my peaceful reverie is broken. My mind refuses to draw any crafty metaphors on life from either the waves or the trains, so my page remains blank. My mind however is now active.
And I am dreaming.
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