I woke up a while ago from a dream of writing a good short story, of which I had no memory of after waking up, but had the slightest hint that it can end up--whatever that is--after series of revisions, as a good story. There is remorse, yes. Even the sharpest memory won't be able to hold much of dreams: I imagine it would be like running from an oasis with water cupped in the hands, trying to hold it long for a potted plant a mile away. There hasn't been much of a container to hold dreams, not even a notebook on the bedside table. I wonder if we actually can will ourselves to remember dreams.