I schlepped a book-laden backpack into a mid-Fifties-era college building, up stairs (probably no elevators were convenient, after all) and, eventually, into a classroom anteroom. Apparently an anteroom; it was classroom-sized but not the classroom. One more door to go through. Which I and the rest of us in that room weren't allowed to go through, even though we all clearly wanted to. Nothing was keeping us from just going through that next door except our certain knowledge that we shouldn't. Unless...
...well, that wasn't clear. Until I was told "Someone left, you can go in now," even though I'd seen no one come out of the door to the classroom.
Which wasn't much more crowded than the anteroom: plenty of space in it. I found an attached-desk seat and sat down with, I hoped, little noise or fuss, and got out my notebook and started noting.
"...it's wish fulfillment" was the first thing I heard out of the professor's mouth. Not sure what had led her to say that, but, as so often happens in dreams, I knew it was important.
Until, maybe, I woke up. (Meaning that the reasons it was important to hear that were, not I maybe I didn't actually wake up this morning. If I'm asleep but still blogging...whoa.) (Did anyone in The Matrix blog?)