Fiorella awoke this morning with a wonderful story floating through her brain, a two-level romance, heart-warming and funny, featuring a younger couple and an older couple, a clever story somehow involving e-mail. It would be her break-through novel, she was sure. Immediately she reached for her trusty pen and paper, always nearby for when she awakens with brilliant ideas. But first she wrote down some Christmas notes she didn't want to forget. Then, when she tried to retrieve her story, it was gone, only a faint wisp remaining, like smoke from dead fire.
Was there ever anything there? Was it just the afterglow of a good dream? Or was it a masterpiece interrupted, like Coleridge, but without the opium?