Last night I dreamed that my brother Michael instructed me to jot down a note to myself: Write screenplay about the women of Al Jazeera. I kept trying, but the paper was wet and the words were unreadable.
I dreamed I was on the back of a subway car. A man stood up behind me and began to exit the train, and in his hand was an electric chainsaw that was on. I moved toward the window, afraid he was going to use it on me, but he didn't.
I dreamed about dogs chasing deer, hunting them down and killing them, and I could hear the screams, the sounds of fear and death.
Dreams, even bad ones, are gifts, and this morning I know more about myself than I did when I closed my eyes last night. ~kb.