I dreamed I was writing this amazing collection of interconnected short stories, a work certain to delight readers and illuminate the human condition as never before, and when, in my half-awake state, I decided to write the whole thing down immediately, I forgot that I wasn't at home, got up on the wrong side of the bed, kicked a piece of furniture that would not have been there if I'd been in my own room, and promptly forgot everything I'd been writing in my dream except for the name of one character: Vilma.
Coleridge dreamed up Kubla Khan; I dreamed up Vilma. Now what am I going to do with her?
3 comments:
Russian? Quite old. Last name Flyintstone?
D.
Are you sure there was no man from Porlock?
No Russians. (Vilma was wearing a sari.) No man from Porlock. No opium or reading William Bartram or sublime poetry, either. And there, in a nutshell, is the difference between me and Coleridge.
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