Poetry

Have strange dream last night in which everyone (including self) writes and talks about poetry. Oh no, the Contessa says briskly at one point, There's no reason for every line to make sense. Nonsense is like the Sahara desert of of meaning. In dream, conclude that she means that when one does find meaning in nonsense, it is like a cool drink of water. When wake up, feel extremely exhausted, but intelligent (further examination of poetry written and discussed in dream erodes latter feeling.)