Each morning the dream recedes like retractable claws. In the 19th century they believed it was always the same dream. You were afflicted all night long by the cruel father or voracious mother.
The more enlightened among us see that you can dream of a library.
Last night I dreamt something having to do with the Dead Sea scrolls. There were lots of badly dressed, vatic people who were vaguely happy. They were beside the water and believed they were loved by the divine. They had plenty of words to support this.
There wasn’t a cruel mother in sight. Unless she was offstage somewhere. Perhaps dear old mum was the dead sea itself, but that’s so Vienna, don’t you think? ƒ
Planet of the Blind 