but he, he wasn't you

Like a dream, everything is distorted but logical.

In the dream I found myself upon the stone steps of a square, on some distant campus. I was talking to a young man and I felt very upset. My eyes were watering. My hands were gesturing, my arms were beating the air like wings. I was trying to push my feelings out of my fingertips into the space between us.
The scene changes. We were in a small classroom where a band is practicing. I fainted, falling into the foot of ocean water cresting across the floor. The tide is coming into the classroom. I let the foam wash over my naked chest. I vomit. I cough and spit and vomit again. The bile mixes with the white wash and it swirls over me.

In the way that dreams do, these surreal events make perfect sense. I feel instinctively confident that these happenings are right.

I am here. You are there. This is also right.

Then there was a moment when I read where you misspelled my name and I understood fully that my being here and you being there means we are apart. I also understood that this is as right as my lying down in a pool of ocean water and vomit in a small classroom while a band is practicing.