and she said.. "how you interpret the dream is probably more important than the dream itself"

Every dinghy little store front you walk by was or is somebody's personal dream. I think it's important to remember that. Every building, however run down, was one man's baby at one point in time; his project, his panacea for the dingy store fronts he has to walk by everyday. An artist in an architect's shoes telling himself that nobody understands and that they'll all appreciate the new, bigger, brighter. Forward, upward, onward, progress!

Every dinghy person covered twice over with the silt of the city that you see shuffling slowly down life's sidewalk is somebody's mother or grandmother or uncle or son; a person so bent over with lanquid dreams that they move as if swimming through honey, a fish out of water, gulping for air in the stickiness of summer-high temperatures. Hot time, summer in the city, back of my neck getting dirty and gritty.

Every dinghy little second you glance ahead and see a signpost scrawled with urban scramble, those are seconds that wilt away like the drops of an ice cream cone dripping away, chocolate and caramel petals floating down through the murky depths of mid-day madness - tadpols swimming against the current of thick hot soupy air gasping, gasping, gasping for breath. There is no saving them, they are gone forever. Sometimes your best friends never come back.

Every dingy single step, every glance or move or shake, every thought you make of those old friends you had, the chocolate and the caramel - coalescing atop a sundae's magic, these are dinghy dying dusty old doorsteps, store-front facades of forever ago. Dreams you had, almost dreams you've forgotten. Soon enough it's you that's lost, gulping for air and swimming through honey, you are the mother or son, fighting off the heavy stickiness of money.