Where we dream is to us a little more than seems feasible by our own imaginations, but less than any of the known worlds of our experience. It is a place that is not a place, a different river than life, and like being born into the waterway of waking hours, we enter not knowing from what source the dreaming flows, yanked out of it at morning bell with the smell of the water still lingering. The feeling that the river is shared by all who dream: our inklings whisper that the dreaming, too, is real — if not as sharp. They say that angels have spoken to the earthbound in dreams, perhaps to conjecture that the stairway to Heaven is to be found in the dreaming…. We all believe in some sense that the dreaming is just a weird echo of what is solid and alive. It may be that there is only one true difference between the dreaming and the living: never can it be said that the dreaming has heard us scream.