In the dreams melting from instant recall, a market with an unusual layout over many floors and layers; a doctor's waiting room with a number of entrances, into which I would enter with a silent comedian's grace. Moments of hyper-realism in dreams always interests me - each colour and style on fabric stalls, seeing potatoes being sliced, the shimmer of water on the backs of dead fish. Having to walk through a procession of actors in costume, even sense the stutter in the walk as some blocked my path. Somewhere (or time) else in the dream a journey around a dismantled railway line, and a swooping camera shot straight from the hyperactive cinema.
The meaning of all this is clear, at least deep down. Many elements are, of themselves, meaningless; memories given a storyline as though cut-and-spliced and glued together. The resulting floatlessness knocks me, the remaining grip of sleep tightens, pinches. My natural reaction is to assume meaning, even warning, but I should know better than that.
From the corner of one eye, subtitles flash across the screen like painted snails.