Fred Wemyss

H. L. Mencken once wrote to a friend (who had written something to the effect that he -- the friend -- detested "men who confess") that he agreed with him.

Another writer once wrote that dreams should not be described in works of fiction.

I wonder where this leaves me, I being a person with a somewhat violent urge to confess and a definite desire to report my dreams.

A few nights ago I dreamed I was in an antiques shop with three strangers who turned out to be thieves. In order to look at a plate I was asked to show one of the men my driver's license. I handed it to him and he put it in his pocket. The other men laughed. Desparate to get my license back I put a chair on a table, jumped on the table, stood on the chair and sang "Jug of This." I sang the wrong words at one point and stopped myself. Waving my hand, I said, "Wait, wait. It goes this way." I re-sang the line correctly, bowed, got off the chair, jumped off the table, took down the chair and looked at the men.
One of them clapped.
But I didn't get back my license.
The man who clapped broke the end off a bottle and walked toward me.