My dreams are a place where I visit friends once forgotten, who were as real to my 4-year-old mind as the friends I have are to me now. Among those old friends is a new one. My muse, if you will. She aids me when I need ideas, and she comforts me when I feel I can't turn to anyone else. She may not be real, I know this, as does she, but she is a good friend who'll listen when noone else will.

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This is a narative retelling of my dream last night. put under fiction cause dreams that are not memories themselves are fictious, are they not?