A dream, like a film of ice on the pond, seems strong, real, but is fragile, unable to support the weight of daylight. It shatters as I wake and only shards remain, insubstantial hints of a story I told myself as I slept. I reach for a shard, hoping to read from it some piece of that story, but it melts away to nothing in my grasp, like thin ice between my fingers.
I dreamt last night. I know because dreamshards littered my mind when I awoke.