Shadows of the night

So last night I had an incredibly vivid dream that a theatre offered me the chance to run a show at 11pm at night. Intending to use the space to develop a show, I just went on with a deck of cards, adlibbed the whole thing and stormed it. Night after night they rose to their feet as I came out with line after line of wildly spontaneously original gems of wit. Nothing was too complicated for me to juxtapose, no link too tenuous to make. Eventually articles began appearing in the press and the listings, until I finally achieved my very own glowing Time Out review. (They don't do stars, otherwise doubt not that I would have had five.) For some rather strange and now forgotten reason, a guitarist appeared and sat in a corner trying to transpose one of my favourite Ink Spots classics. The theatre begged me to extend, and I, bemused by my runaway success, accepted. You can imagine my disappoint then, when I finally opened my eyes to find myself in my bed, in my parent's house, on my own. Not so cool.