I’m standing in a crowded street, a few feet away from a staircase leading down to the underground station. People blur by, walking purposefully, avoiding eye contact. The sun is already high in the sky; it must be noontime, or close to it. I lift my gaze and stare at the sun for five or six seconds, then shut my eyes, and a painful, bright circular shape is engraved in my eyelids. I feel dehydrated, I have a headache, and I want to find some shade and perhaps a bottle of water.

“It’s a warm day,”  says a voice to my left. I turn to see who’s talking. It’s hard to see through the white blinding circle, but I can make out a shape; a young man, maybe 23 or 24. He’s wearing corduroys and a plain, navy blue T-shirt. He’s got a Yankees cap on, and he’s wearing those John Lennon sunglasses. He is looking at the sun.

“Yes, it is. This weekend is supposed to rain, though.”

“No, no chance of that. Look at the sky, not a single cloud!”

A train of mirthful European tourists – a husband, wife, and three little girls – passes between us, blocking my view of the guy for a few seconds.

“I know, but that’s what they said on the forecast. In the paper as well,”  I say.

“No one believes the papers,”  he says.

“Doesn’t that hurt?”

“What’s that?”

“Looking straight at the sun like that? It’s bad for your eyes.”

“Nah, I’ve got sunglasses. ‘Sides”, he adds casually, “it’s only a dream.”

“What is?”

“This,” he says, pointing upwards. “And all of that,”  he adds, with an all-encompassing gesture of his hands, as if he’s trying to give the world a big hug.

I’ve run into his type before, I think to myself. Street bums with nothing to do but wax lyrical about the world and such. I’ve got a couple of minutes, I say to myself. I’ll indulge.

“So there’s nothing substantial, you say? Our lives are nothing but fleeting moments, and we are the stuff that dreams are made of, that kind of thing?”

He looks at me – is that a hint of surprise in his eyes? –  and says “Yep!”

“Nothing is real, then?”

He watches the cars pass by. “Well, none of this stuff is real. Although I have to say, this is the most vivid dream I’ve had in a long while.”

Now I’m interested.

“So you actually think this is a dream? As in, not a metaphor for an existence devoid of absolute tangible substance or something, but an actual dream?”

“Of course,”  he looks at me a bit funny, “of course!”

“Oh,”  I say.

This isn’t your run-of-the-mill Descartes aficionado, I think. This isn’t a sci-fi junkie who’s watched The Matrix one time too many. This is a proper lunatic, an actual crazy person. I’m a bit surprised; you expect them to be older, and not as casually dressed, and probably locked up somewhere. This guy? If he hadn’t opened his mouth, I probably wouldn’t have even noticed him. But here we are, and I have time, and I don’t have anything better to do.

“Listen,”  I say, “what if I could prove to you that this is not a dream?”

“I still wouldn’t believe you,”  he says. “You’re a figment of my imagination.”

But he’s looking at me from the corner of his shades. He’s intrigued all right.

“Anyway, how would you do that?”

“Wait here.”

I walk up half a block to a stop-and-shop and buy a Snickers bar. I walk back, unwrap it down to the middle and hand it to him. “Try it!”

He looks at me, amused, and grabs the bar. He takes a bite.

“Well?”

“Well what? Just what you’d expect; completely tasteless”.

Of course.

“You know, some people can taste and smell in their dreams. I read about it somewhere.”

“Well, I guess I can’t. I know I took a bite, and I can see a piece is bitten off, but I have no aftertaste of chocolate in my mouth. And believe me, I know a Snickers bar when I taste one.”

“Let me try it,” I say. He hands me the bar and I take a bite. My mouth is instantly bombarded with a warm ultra-sweet mixture of chocolate, caramel, peanuts – you know, a Snickers bar.

“Sure tastes like the real thing to me.”

“Of course it would – you’re in the dream!”  he says, almost joyfully. Then he frowns for a second, and adds: “or rather, I am in the dream. You simply are the dream.”

“Listen,” I want to shout at him, but I try to keep my cool, “if this is a dream, why can’t you grow a pair of wings and fly away? Why can’t you make everyone speak Spanish? Shouldn’t you have that kind of power, seeing as this is your dream and all?”

I’m not being very nice, saying all those things, trying to burst this poor chap’s bubble. But this guy is beginning to get on my nerves.

“That’s a good question,” he says, in a serious, contemplative manner. “I have to say, that is a very good question. But look,”  he points at a road sign right next to where we’re standing, “the letters are all blurry!”

I look at where he’s pointing. It’s a rectangular white sign, with a clear, big, red print saying:

NO PARKING

MON-FRI

6AM – 6PM

“Can you really not see that?!”  I raise my voice. I want to grab him by his shoulders and give him a good shake. “Can you really not read what it says?”

“No, I can’t make out the alphabet. It looks like Russian or something. And the letters are all jumbled up – see how they keep squirming about?”

I’m losing my nerves. I should know better than this, messing with madmen in the middle of the street. He might be dangerous, I think to myself. Maybe I should agree with him. Besides, these street people, they don’t have much going for them. The least I could do is give him an encouraging word.

But before I get the chance to say something, he says: “well, nice talking to ya – and thanks for the chocolate!”

He starts walking away.

“Wait!” – I shout after him, not sure what I should be saying – “Where are you going?”

As he walks away, he shouts over his back: “I’m going exploring; the night is still young! Maybe this dream has a meaning, or something!”

“Good luck!”  I shout. “And good night!”

He stops, turns around, and smiles. “Hey, if this is not a dream,”  he says – quietly, and yet somehow I can make out every word, despite the crowd and the distance and the traffic  – “Can you tell me your name?”

He winks at me, or maybe he’s just squinting because of the sunlight, and then he turns and walks away. Soon he’s lost in the crowd.

An enormous sadness suddenly engulfs me, like a thick, heavy blanket on a warm summer’s day. I turn my gaze back to the sun; I don’t see any spots, only clear, bright light.

Somewhere, someone is rolling over in his sleep.

Michael Hazani is attending his final year at Berklee. A few of his favorite things are: writing, biking, Skittles, and chasing dreams.