Dreams are malleable¹ — during sleep the brain rapidly processes the day’s events, diluting conscious reality with imagery from another time, bizarre fantasies and fears of the unconscious. Like some sort of mental auto-pilot, but on acid.

Memory, on the other hand, grants us access to an accurate account of events we have experienced — in chronological order and as recorded through the objective lens of sensory perception. Right?

I once saw a man get shanked in Philly. The poor bastard doubled over in silent disbelief, eyes like saucers. The shock and pain whipped his head forward. He was enshrouded by the hood on his over-sized sweatshirt. I never saw his face. As he came to his knees, he held his stomach trying to keep the deep crimson of his own blood from mingling with the red of his hoodie. The scene was as if someone had pressed the mute button and forgotten to add the subtitles first.

“Welcome to the city² of brotherly love,” my dad said. “Now don’t stare.”

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