I do not dream that often.

So last night was unsettling.

I clearly remember voicing my utter confidence in all of what was taking place being real - because I am not asleep see! - about half-way through, talking to some non-descript individual while peeing into a urinal in a place I have certainly never seen before, with strange tiling, during a time of year roughly six months from now. I had already floated around a home that was not my own, yet felt like it, covered in fur and tied to helium balloons by then. It started with someone I know and admire sending me intimate e-mail and ended with familiar strangers taking delight in colourful patterns from an ever flickering slide projector, someone yelling "screw that beamer" at the moment I jolted up in bed and thought crap - there was no e-mail, never. Said intricate plotline also revolved around scene rehearsals of a film with no title and less budget, plus an actor whose face and outfit have me remember at just this moment the real-world imagery making up that part. The place would fit, although the strange door leading to it could be furniture of an Orient Express carriage, now that I think it through ...

So yeah.

Most obviously I could not resist the urge to start doing this again. I see where it stems from. Thoughts racing, each with its own denial, zooming past in pairs. And in the middle I sit, fishing for significance, knowing perfectly well that this approach has failed before. Beckett said you might fail better every time you try again though. I shall see where this leads.

That is the point where we throw self-reference out of the window and sincerely hope it does not have legs.