Nowadays, I write blank verse in my sleep.
The night before last, I dreamt that I and some strange person (whom I never saw, because I was too intent on the pages) were adapting a non-verse play into verse, with page after page after page of revision.
And just a few hours ago, I dreamt that I was poring through a stack of books, all of them paperback editions of The Duchess of Malfi. I came across one with an attractive cover (scrawly green and brown crayon work on a white background), and the Strange Person tried to convince me that I owned this edition in real life. I said, "No, I don't think so," but he or she or it kept placing the book in my hands.