Dreams are afraid of me. There must be a reason for them to escape the grasp of reality. They are all populated with distant sounds, blurred images. And people. Many people, some faceless, others distorted. They all live in me — no, better yet, they live again inside of me, tall figures of smoky movements, fogged in the warm bizarro of the unconscious.
I reach for them, they speak in tongues; I decipher them, suddenly I am fluent in their gibberish and ready to share their fuliginous secrets…
— but then the dream is dead, only to revive with newborn figures, my achievements forgotten every night.
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