I'm reluctant to give out any more details, on the odd chance that I might actually get up the gumption to do anything with it someday. My few stabs at fiction of any length remain unfinished messes: the mere notes of the screenplay Six Feet to Paradise that I started dreaming up around my second senior year of undergraduate, and the half-written screenplay for Short of the Glory that I was writing with/for Brett Boessen at Notre Dame, but for which I could never quite come up with an ending that satisfied me narratively and theologically. Oi. I've not thought of that in ages: a quick "Spotlight" scan of my computer shows me three copies of the beast, from the memory of three different computers, and which was last opened at 5:16pm on February 28th, 1997.
Anyway, it's so rare for me to have a dream of such great length and detail: honestly, I cannot recall having had one like that in years, if ever at such length. I was in a state of strangely-mixed excitement and loss when I went downstairs and told Mom about it over breakfast Saturday morning. It was a long while before I could shake off the desperate and almost-always-futile desire to go back to sleep so as to try to re-enter the dream. (I think that that's only worked for me once.)