I had a dream about her again last night. It’s two nights in a row now. Last night was different. I concentrated on every detail of her as if my life depended on it. She sat across from me. We talked and laughed. I was honestly happy. When I woke up, I remembered everything. I remembered her smile. I remembered her eyes. I remembered how her skin draped delicately over each of her 206 beautiful bones. It seemed so real. I thought it was profound. I thought it meant something. Then again, it was just a dream, and aren’t dreams merely a mechanism created by the body to reconcile what the heart desires with what the eyes see when we are awake? My practical side believes they could be just that, but my sentimental side refuses to accept it. It can’t. So I think that, with the promise of hope and potential, dreams are simply short films that the desperate mind shows to the restless soul to appease it and coax it into remaining in the body for one more day. When dreams eventually lose that power and control over those sensibilities of the spirit, we die.