It rained. Every drop a tiny flake of glass. The face of a wet do not know well. The wind in the willows. The message was a letter that washed while you put it in my hand and walked away down black hooded raincoat.
Awakening, it was raining, the postman at the door with a yellow raincoat was going through a letter, apologizing because the rain had washed out the address, explaining how you may file a complaint.
So you have not opened the letter, according to the instructions of the dream.
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