The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

A moment. Honda could feel that nothing at all had
happened in the interval separating the Honda of
sixteen from the Honda of seventy-six. An instant, time
for a child in a game of hopscotch to hop over a ditch.
He had seen often enough how the Dream Diary
kept so faithfully by Kiyoaki had come true. He had
had evidence enough of the superiority of dreams to
waking. But he had not thought that his own life would
ever be so filled with dreams. There was happiness in
the dreams that poured over him like floods over Thai
paddy lands; but they had only nostalgia for a past
that would not return to set against the delicious
fragrance of Kiyoaki’s dreams. A young man who had
not dreamed had become an old man who dreamed
occasionally, and that was all. His dreams had little to
do with symbol or with imagination.
This chewing-over of dreams as he lay in bed each
morning came in part from a fear of the arthritic pains
that were certain to follow. With the memory of
yesterday’s scarcely endurable pain in the hips, the
pain this morning would move to his shoulders and
sides. He did not really know until he got out of bed
where it would be. He did not know while he still lay in
bed, flesh withered and bones creaking in the
gelatinous remains of dreams, in thoughts of a day
that was certain to bring nothing of interest.