Before I crawl through the duct that leads to my bedroom, I like to stand for a moment, ears akimbo, outside the closet door in the hallway just below the stairs. If I listen very carefully, I can almost hear the sound of baking bread. This is what dreams are made of. At least mine are. Yours might be made of something else, like masking tape, or old shoes.
But my dreams are made of bread, and they always arrive piping hot. I think that's because they travel through the same pipes that carry steam from the boiler downstairs. Otherwise they would be cold.