You had been dreaming.
You’re Leonard Cohen, performing in front of thousands- who know your words, but can’t wait to hear your diaphragm birth them again. You put on a great show, with the crowd chanting “Lover, Lover, Lover” in between breaths, as if they were saying the Jesus Prayer.
That’s when you awake.
You’ve missed a call that you very much would have loved to receive. But the voicemail indicator is on. And you’re no Leonard Cohen.
Your stomach falls but your heart rises. Like a bird given to flight off the wire, your mind dances in all kinds of wonderful directions. There’s even jazz music playing in your head as you dress for the day.
There’s the underwear, the starched shirt, and the jeans. You consider putting on a bow tie, to reflect your dream, but decide not to. Not that you have one.
You take a moment and reflect on the sunlight coming in from your windows. It feels nice and warm and full of vitamins, but it doesn’t feel like the energy you felt in the dream; the energy you felt once before. Fuck the sun’s fussion.
You light a cigarette, find the taste not to your liking, and place it where it belongs; on the ashtray. But still, you think back to the dream, and light another one. Much better.
Once you’re ready, you punch the voicemail icon on your advanced smartphone only to be disappointed; it’s an ad from your telephone company.