For some reason, I still think a lot about how bizarre that day was. The bits around it are lost, but it makes sense that people remember feelings better than events.

You told me I was the guy of your dreams. But I didnt think I was ever the guy of anyone's dreams, not even my own. For me, that guy was taller, paler, blonder, bluer.

But I was somehow, rebelliously, enough to be somebody's fiction—an ideal for a day that even Plato, I'd thought, would be jealous of. And for the first time, I realized that could be true of anyone, even if just for a moment. It's a little embarrassing—how long it took for me to figure that one out. 

You know, that people dream differently.

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