The color of her hands was different each dream. There was some deep metaphorical meaning in that, and she would muse significantly, "My hands... my hands are purple cotton."
I was writing in in my Treo because I wasn't at home, and then I remembered that I should use my portable keyboard to make the typing go more quickly. Fortunately I'd remembered to bring it along. I was at a camp-out or retreat of some sort, with lots of friends. Writing at a picnic table by a lake.
When I woke up this morning after the first good night's sleep in a couple of weeks, I wanted cereal. I've been enjoying cereal every morning this week. I poured the last of the box into a bowl, retrieved a spoon, then sniffed the milk. Sour.
I stood there, still holding my spoon near my mouth, staring mournfully at my alluring bowl of milkless cereal, sniffing the bottle repeatedly. Hoping the smell would change. Surely it's still okay, isn't it? For this one last bowl?
The date on the milk said 1/28, and I knew it couldn't possibly be the end of January already. I left the milk in the kitchen and went into the den to check the computer's date. 1/29. Where does the time go, and why does it take my milk along with it?
I poured the milk down the drain and put my spoon away. Pouting, I ate the cereal dry.