So I'm supposed to be some kind of writer/artist

Yet all my best finished stories are based on dreams I can take no credit for having. And even better are the ones that didn't make it out of my dreams.

Like one time I dreamed, swear to Mary Shelley, the fucking Tribute of short stories. It was flawless, poetic, untranslatable, every word perfect, every word perfectly related to every other word and perfectly placed on the page. It was just two pages and it was a sweet, sad story of a group of college friends whose lives were all touched in various ways coincidentally related to a strange door they could never open, somewhere in this magnificent school built in a thousand year old stone castle on top of a mountain, surrounded by wild forests and oak-laden parks and steep rocky slopes and a sprawling cemetery.

Really a miraculous sort of story that fit this fantastically moody setting in with the several characters and their various relationships and the narrator's reflections in just two pages, but that was part of the genius.

I actually cried when I woke up, but that may be less because i was moved by the story and more because I had a massive case of eyelash in my eye. But I didn't even care, just let the tears run away while I rubbed my eye absently and thought about how I could improve in some small way the first sentence of the short epiological last paragraph which was just a little bit less perfect than everything else. There was no rush in my mind, or in fact anything in my mind other than the story, every word burning clearly in my short term memory. Except I forgot everything but that sentence while I was finishing it.

The end.