Thoughts turned drabble after reading a book of short stories.
"What kind of book is that?"
She looked up.
"What kind of stories." the young man asked "How would you describe them as dreams?"
She licked her lips. "Little nightmares. Not too long. The very best. And dreams. Strange dreams that are bright and clear when you're asleep, but forget upon waking, bit by bit, and that are only a hand full of images in the daylight, images of which you don't entirely know anymore how they fitted together."
"Is everything a story to you?"
"I don't know. Sometimes. Is everything a dream to you?"
"I don't know. Sometimes."
She grinned, a ivory-white flicker and moving lips that had never seen a needle before.
"That's more a true answer than a good answer." she said, and he nodded.