In a long complicated dream, shipboard as I recall, at one point, a small, dark-haired lady with pointy chin and crisp, blue, short-sleeved, shirtwaist comes into my room and puts a playing card in the trash basket.
The dream goes on. I think nothing of it. The drama of the dream goes on. At a certain point, it is very important that we have the card. I struggle then remember that particular point earlier in my dream, so go down this hallway, through this ballroom, up these stairs, into this cabin. In a rush I dump out all the garbage of the day onto the carpet and retrieve the one playing card (six of clubs) that I saw in my dream having put it there myself, since I am the dreamer, in a blue shirtwaist.
How strange and wonderful is the mind. You’d think I would know what to do next.