Last night:

I'm in the entryway to a large hall or meeting room, stone walls and lit by firelight, there is a long roughhewn table in the center. This looks like something from Shakespeare's time.

I walk up to the tall figure seated at the center of the table and sit opposite him. There is a small glass at his elbow. He's writing in a small notebook. I sit quietly and wait.

Without looking up, he sings tones, deep and melodic. Then he says/sings  "For the sake of a needle, the ship was lost." He sings it again. It doesn't make any sense but it rings a bell, like it's some forgotten rhyme from my childhood. "You plucked that from my mind, didn't you" I say. He looks me in the eye, very alert. "How'dya do that?" I ask him.  He sings something that sounds  like "Go slow". "What?"  A long silence.  "I listen to God's flow"

There's a shift, I feel very comfortable. "You know, when I read your trilogy, I'd wake up in the mornings and when my inner dialogue would start it felt like it was out of your books and I was just witnessing what someone else had wrote. Very strange that"

"That's how it felt writing them. I listened and witnessed. I didn't really write those books. I transcribed them"

We go outside. It's a cobblestone street, again lit by something like firelight. I have a feeling of such companionship with this man, matter-of-fact warmth radiating from him. I think we're walking toward a library but I don't ask. "Do you know where you are?" i ask him. He looks at me, eyes twinkling. "City of the dead isn't it? Do you live anywhere different?" "I'm dreaming you" I say. There is such warmth coming from him.  "We're figments of each other's imaginations" he says to me.

We go into a storefront, ducking low. Inside we get fitted for shoes. They're very soft like they're made of felt. The shoemaker looks out of a fairy tale. We go back on the street and keep walking. "7 league boots", I think.

"Do you want to leave here, go somewhere different?" I'm thinking we can fly out of here.

He says nothing and keeps walking. He wants to show me something. There is such caring coming from him. I feel great.

I don't remember anything past this point.

Hey old friend,

Sam B. wrote the trilogy Molloy, Malone dies, and the Unnamable (and other novels as well)

He's most famous for writing the play "Waiting for Godot"

(which he pronounced "God- oh" not "Go- doh" as most people think. An actor who was directed by him told me that)

I was in my dreambody looking out through my dreambody's eyes until the point where we were both fitted for shoes and I thought of flying. Then I was floating above Sam B. and my
dreambody, watching them walk and following them from above in my formless body.

Talk to ya soon and
see you in dreamland.

Love, Tim F.