I hardly ever remember my dreams. The last one I DO remember, somebody told me they were dying. I woke up torn between being incredibly sad, pissed off at myself for having such a dream, and elated that it wasn't real.

I had one ages ago while I was reading "Creative Dreaming." I was running away from "them," whoever them was. I thought I should stop and face them. Then I realised I wasn't really afraid of them but I was sure enjoying the escaping thing. I seem to recall floating down a beautiful river on a raft. Oh well... I was around 18 then. I think I was just refusing to grow up, and that's what "they" wanted.