Sweet dreams are made of these...

My dreams sometimes play out like miniseries; every night all week I'll have a continuation of some thread or another, of the previous night's dream. Once at That Anonymous College I dreamed for a week straight about Satan trying to kill me in my sleep. Everynight, true to miniseries's form, was more frightenening and, dare I say, thrilling. This week, however, I've been plagued rather pleasantly, not with demons and death, but gardens. That's right; I've been having garden-themed dreams and I couldn't be more delighted. Lush green gardens, secret gardens, neatly manicured Buddhist gardens, overflowing jungly English gardens. I smell the flowers, I hear the hum of the insects, I seek refuge from the imaginary beating sun under twisting vines and stooping sunflowers. Giggly streams wind around my feet and tadpoles dart past my toes. It's fantastic. Some of the dreams have plots to fill out the scene, but what's really lovely is waking up amidst the demise of summer but blissfully, if momentarily unaware, because I awake each morning from visions of perfect, idyllic gardens, forever immune to the swirling autumn winds just beyond my window.