I dream of numbers, but not in that genius mathematician way where numbers are beautiful symbols, keys really, to unlocking the secrets of the universe. These numbers are not metaphors creating poetry beyond the grasp of normal folk like me. No. I dream of the addresses I am sorting, shuffling, assigning a place to in my letter carrier universe. I find myself amused that the numbers of the house addresses I have been marrying to the mail I carry throughout the day should have their say, intrude on my sleeping self and be mundane and significant at the same time to me. Sixty-two-hundred-thirty-three, I think. Sixty-two-hundred-thirty-three, I think repetitively and wake with a piece of mail in my hand that only my dreaming mind could see.