It was in the middle of a winter night and my car broke down on an icy bridge over the freeway. I got out of the car and the car disappeared. The night was perfectly still and quiet and there was a strange comfort in standing there in the open. There was no traffic on the bridge; no traffic on the highway below the bridge; no lights from the town nearby. It was just dark and quiet; just my breath steaming in the frozen air. Everything was shut down. Everything was done for the night. Everyone was asleep everywhere, curled up somewhere warm, wishing all their silent wishes and dreaming all their silent dreams, and the stars twinkled in the sky above without the moon or the city contending for their light. There was nothing there on the bridge but the cold crystal radiance of the cosmos and the rising clouds of my breath as I stood there amazed by it all.
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The Encyclopedia of Counting Sheep 
This is surely the best dream of all, the entry into “cosmic consciousness”, if you’ll excuse the phrase.
And a wonderfully lean prose poem. Unlike this gushing.
Save it for a slim volume of your best, to be published by City Lights in SF (perhaps 50 years too late though)
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The bridge in the dream is a local one I'm familiar with. I didn't feel like it would add anything to mention that though.
Still, I always like dreams that transform some familar place and make it seem interesting and alien.
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