Willow

The conscious says what it will in daylight, until the subconscious rears its head in the night.

There was a book. The cover was white with the word "Willow" stretched across in crisply elegant black font. I was shocked to see the familiar name across the bottom. I rifled through the pages and it suddenly dawned on me that you'd written enough words to fit in a book. Those words told me about everything that had happened since--poems and vignettes about the people you'd met, and the places you'd been, and the things that had happened to you. I saw one about me. It was short and sparse, infused with nostalgia and a sprinkling of barely discernible regret. The pebble to the meteor.

What I felt was envy. That you'd accomplished something I'd dreamed of doing for as long as I can remember. But then I realized something else in that liminal space of lucid dreaming. It doesn't exist in a physical bound shape, but mine exists. It's here.