She and I were back at it in bitter argument, going back and forth again in one of those fights about my writing, another spat about writing, I was practically spitting anger, having to argue (yet again!) for the time to write, for the right to write, free time to write. I know to everyone else it appears that I’m doing nothing, sitting around, doing what? Getting what done? She’d be questioning the worth of this so-called writing, what was the purpose of it, etc. I’d be practically shaking and spitting anger, having to defend the writing practice, such as it was, whatever its limited successes, whatever its apparent lack of pragmatic worth, again. I insisted on it, its value somehow, on doing it—as I saw fit. Then when I awoke, I realized it’s been years since we had those arguments. But still, as we started the day, I didn’t mention to her that she was in the dream and we had been arguing. Just go, starting the day.