The way by moonlight.

Bowling has been around for, I don't know, maybe a hundred years or so. And I rarely bowl, I haven't in almost a whole year, but for weeks now I find myself waking out of the most vivid dreams of bowling--pink silk, those bright shoe laces and tough boots, bliss, and that bowling alley music. If I could at all, I would perhaps like to have conspired that the encyclopedic dream interpretation of bowling might have been too closely developed in accordance with derivations of psychoanalysis that linked all to eroticism, the psychology and the sport both sharing an historically mutual period. Yet, you know, sometimes psychoanalysis is uncannily bowling turkeys.

But dreams are the most important, I'm sure of that. The things that might happen to you in a dream reveal a certain truth about yourself and your heart that you might otherwise not easily see when awake. The ones that enter into your dream, and especially the things they say to you in the dream, are the most significant--because their presence and their very distinct words are in a great sense your very own thoughts and feelings as well. And so they are shaped upon a rationale that is stronger and deeper than a positivistic line of thinking that you might make drawn when you are awake. Because anyone can reason out anything, really. But that in both dreams and wakefulness, city buses always seem to first be driving through eternity before arriving for you at their stop.