When I dream I feel as though I should dream of Paris, of the way streets meander, of the way parquet flooring looks, of the way the light dance across the glasses raised as I sing I finally sing, triumphant that I have embraced a full throated life.
I think I should dream of a piano in the corner of a room, the light from a courtyard playing across the soft fur of a cat nestled in a sunbeam of an overstuffed chair and a table piled high with books and nearly enough space for a cup of tea.
I would like a dream of a small place called chateau la mienne, with a messy garden rife with flowers, butterflies birds and probably hedgehogs.
I think I would like to dream of sense, though french books have upside down titles and I feel so awkward reading spines from the right. I’ve romanticized my memories for certain. But they play out true in my dreams.