dreams and the foundation of rain

Have you ever had a dream where you know you've dreamt some terribly profound thought and so go on repeating this thought throughout the remainder of your sleep, the remainder of your dreams, until morning? I grab a pen near me, and hold it for hours while I sleep. I know I have no paper, I never have paper. Only other people's books that serve well as notepads. Tonight, or this morning, Dylan Thomas is closest. I grab him and hold him in one hand, my pen in my other, closed on my chest, and sleep still on my back for a good many half-hours. (Aside: I have trained myself not to move in my sleep for fear of my loft bed collapsing, its groans more melancholy every day.) But still, hours later, I own that profound thought that woke me many dreams ago. It is somehow altered now, like an old friend's face hazy with memory, or like Dylan Thomas' portrait on the cover of his collection. (If only he were my friend.) I repeat this thought like a game of telephone from dream to dream to dream. Finally, around 8:45 I wake enough to scribble it down, beneath the author's note, page xi:

I am closing up your exits.

When I reread this I scoff, and laugh, and am embarrassed for myself. This is my idea of profundity? But it's always like that. Dreams have a way of humbling me.
But should I analyze my dream-phrase? Who is the speaker? The audience? The tenor and vehicle? Am I addressing myself? Or perhaps gates talk? And do I care?

Dream from a non-repetition night:
I dreamt of the city from above, a time-speed video of cars at night. But there were no cars, there was just one flash of light going back and forth across blocks, up and down avenues. That light was me.

And in the vein of dreams:
It's Thursday night 1am. It's Friday morning 1am.
The sky from my roof is usually darker, like a sky anywhere else. Just hours ago it was black and I could see the half moon. But now it is orange and there are clouds like a thick army blanket. There are sirens but it is not because of them that I think there are fires on all sides of me. Fires to the north and south and east and, if the buildings and water towers were not holding my view, to the west as well. Great-World fires. Fires like only broken-heart-wartime-movie fires. Why else would the 1am sky be bright orange? It is not only by way of Times-Square and the sun is not rising yet, certainly not from all four directions. Perhaps the smog is burning. Or it is a child's watercolors in the onset of rain. I know the foundation of rain is the color orange.