Was it a vision or a waking dream?

As I saw her I thought of the far shore of time's wide wind and currents had dragged me far from there, beaten and bruised, and dropped me alone.

If this is a vision, then she must still be there standing, waiting, watching, hoping, always for my return. When I cross the uncrossable in a triumph of colors.

If it is a dream, then I will savor it the last drop is milked out, until it lies wrinkled like an old photograph. To old men, dreams are the last place where you can truly live.