I always have the weirdest dreams when I’m running a fever.
I dreamed a man named Brown came to me. He sang a haunting love song for his lover because he was dead and she didn’t know. The words of the song drifted to me in an echoing, haunting haze. I could barley see Brown in the fog as he played his guitar, his ghostly voice warbled as he sang. He had shoulder length brown hair parted in the middle and brown eyes. He wore a cranberry colored sweater, khaki pants and sandals.
The story Brown’s sang was a song of lost love. His lover waited by the river for him every day because that was their meeting spot. He was a musician and had left to travel around and write music and she was waiting for him to return. Brown was a hippie and didn’t have a phone. He didn’t believe in them. So when he ran out of money, he had no way of telling her. He got really sick and died: homeless, penniless and alone. He told me he wanted his lover to know he always thought of her on the road and he was sorry he couldn’t make it back home. He asked me to tell her he’s “dead and gone”. The tune of the song faded, along with Brown, and I woke up.
Wish I could remember the words to that chilling song …