i could only remember one image from my dream last night..
the scene of a decaying baby waving its arms and legs about, until the flesh is gone and all that is left is not a skeleton of the baby, but a clay mould. the shape of the baby...just like a piece of clay, waiting for glass eyes to be put in, the nose to be pinched and defined and all the fingers and toes to be drawn in.
could be the after-effects of reading too many sci-fi stories these days... i'm finally reading the whole pile of Asimov books waiting for me. 'breathmoss' was particularly interesting, and touched deep.