A Dream (n.) shows, if Freud's theory has anything in it, how complicated the mind's picturing of facts is, so irregular it can barely be called representation.
A Dream (n.) can leave a word seeming hugely significant long after waking, an illusion possible awake too, and common in the insane.
A Dream (n.) intrigues not by its causes but by affecting us like a vivid fragment of a story, the rest in darkness; being shown the 'real' story robs us of something.
A Dream (n.) is like an idea pregnant with possible implications; told to another, its picture usually inspires him not at all.
A Dream (n.) is all wrong, absurd, composite, and yet completely right — as Shakespeare, if great, is wrong in every detail and right by a law of his own.
A Dream (n.) can contain knowing: in the dream I knew that — remarkable, that one can dream one knew.
A Dream (n.) can be kept to oneself: someone may dream and tell no one, for he may dream and tell.
A Dream (n.) may show one chess move, yet I dreamt I played a game: you didn't really play it, you dreamt it.
A Dream (n.) might be remembered as illustrations without plot, ideas forgotten on waking and only the pictures kept.
A Dream (n.) plot might be a strange disturbance of memory, blending memories of many days, even of childhood, into one event dated to sleep.
A Dream (n.) could be grasped by a people who never dream, and their doctors could draw inferences from a stranger's dreams.