Treason of Words

I read somewhere recently that one's dreams are among the most boring things possible to discuss with another. I suppose this stems from the same you-had-to-be-there factor that makes stories about what happened that one time at that party seem so funny to the teller, but less so to the audience. Except, in this case, the teller wasn't really "there," either. All the same, I've had a few doozies lately, like the one where I chivarously defended a female crank-powered television designer against her knife-wielding chauvinist colleague, and later shoved him out the front door of my childhood home, only to turn around in the foyer and be confronted by an extraordinarily tall and thin man in a grey suit and a blank, glossy black mask. Last night's was less creepy. My wife and I had moved to help Nona (that is, my dear maternal grandmother) with the small Old West tourist trap that she ran. There was a dusty main street lined with storefronts, chief among which was