Now and again I have had horrible dreams, but not enough of them to make me lose my delight in dreams. To begin with. I like the idea of dreaming, of going to bed and lying still and then, by some queer magic, wandering into another kind of existence. As a child, I could never understand why grown-ups took dreaming so calmly when they could make such a fuss about any holiday, this still puzzles me. I am puzzled by people who say they never dream and appear to have no interest in the subject. It is much more astonishing than it would be if they said they never went out for a walk. Most people do not seem to accept dreaming as part of their lives. They appear to see it as an irritating little habit, like sneezing or yawning I can never understand this. My dream life does not seem as important as my waking life because there is far less of it, but to me it is important. For the author of the passage, dreaming is  _  .    .
another kind of existence an irritating little habit a horrible but wonderful experience a true reflection of reality