I do not often remember my dreams, but when I do ( usually nighmarish), I write them down and then try to interpret them; it's not exact I try to see how they dissolve the boundaries of normality or, as in Professor S.Greenfield's view, "the ties between dreams and madness are closer than we may wish to accept".
The light was soft and formed a cone in the center of the room when I entered. No idea
what room or house it was though I felt I knew it. There, in the cone of light, the man
who had been so important in my life, sat, cross legged. The body was one my eyes and hands
knew: long limbs, elegant shape of the chest, tanned skin. But the face, the face was not one I recalled. It seemed the head of a ninety-year-old glued on the bust of a young adult. I walked backward yet advanced and was staring into the dark orbits set on top of a cheekless round drooping down to a two-toothed smile. The voice was not a voice but a sax with many mouths around. A sax-vase when blades of grass started to grow, a sax-face with melodies streaming from the nostrils and eyes. The smell of mud was unbearable. I couldn't move, couldn't lift my feet from the soft ground. The moon broke through the roof, went metal and, eventually, crashed: a shield of gold with the face of a clock and my feet stuck on three o'clock.
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