In my dreams, I now seem to expect to be able to touch printed text to select and copy it.
There was more – me writing down a complicated dream/memoir/something in a horrible text editor on some combination of my old c64 and Amiga, meeting my mother in an oddly truncated and completely empty room that my brain insisted was the living room of the house I grew up in – but I can't remember it well enough to say anything about it.