I had a recurring dream as a child which left me painfully baffled until I learned what dreams are made of. Unlike the recurrent dreams of adulthood, this one is always pleasant. Towards the end of every dream, when morning light starts to penetrate my eyelids and my dad's voice begins to pull me back into reality, my dream would ebb away with a trail of candy. The feel of the little sweets in my palms causes my to hurriedly wake up so I can savor them. Of course, I'd see that my hands were empty and there was only the mute morning light laughing at my silliness. For a long time I tried to fathom the mystery of my dream candy. One moment they were there in my palms and I distinctly felt the crisp wrappers prickling my girl-child skin. Then I blinked myself back into the sphere of conciousness and they were gone. By that age I'd already undestood that dreams stay in that world you visit when you're too tired to deal with the one you're in. This one, however, got me chasing it because I physically felt the candy in my hands. Being five years old, I thoroughly understood the importance of candy and any candy left uneaten is almost as sinful as sin itself. I wanted so much to atone for that sin that I often tried to will myself back to sleep. That is, until the day intervened and play and bath and friends and dolls became priority and I forgot about the dream until the next time it came visiting, inevitably leaving with another trail of candy for me to pursue.