Room Perfect

We drove through the arid yellow as usual to answer for the recurring demands of the day, and as we did, you were in the middle of a sentence for some time about a saint who cried while being a statue. She was hammered from a dream a man once had. You couldn't recall his or her name, but repeated the dream in detail. This is what usually happens to us. It involved a mountain that was introduced to the man who had the dream. Apparently, the climate where we live is similar to the climate in the dream, but there are no mountains. You furnished the man's dream with several other things that the listener had to take on faith. Given the landscape, you'd think there won't be an awful lot to say about it it's either all or nothing in such desert parts. Anyhow, there was more, and you went on to tell me that every time you go home, you're not sure you'll make it back. Back when we met, we had a strange idea –I don't know whose idea was it anymore –to discuss the work of gift ladies, and how difficult it is for their partners to maintain the element of surprise, and I said that at times the partners must feel like they're clinging to a lone boulder, and you said I don't know enough about lone boulders to use them as a metaphor. I tried again and said that the new couch was room perfect.