What if you slept? And what if, in your sleep, you dreamed? And what if, in your dream, you went to heaven and there plucked a strange and beautiful flower? And what if, when you awoke, you had the flower in your hand? Ah, what then?
Dreams are the eraser dust I blow off my page. They fade into the emptiness, another dark gray day. Dreams are only memories of the plans I had back then. Dreams are eraser dust and now I use a pen.
Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things that escape those who dream only at night.
I wandered over the land, and good people did not neglect me. After many years, I became old and white; I heard a great deal, many lies and falsehoods, but the longer I lived the more I understood that there were really no lies. Whatever doesn’t really happen is dreamed at night… No doubt the […]
All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
The ninety and nine are with dreams, content but the hope of the world made new, is the hundredth man who is grimly bent on making those dreams come true.
Cherish your visions and your dreams as they are the children of your soul; the blue-prints of your ultimate achievements.
All men of action are dreamers.
People who insist on telling their dreams are among the terrors of the breakfast table.