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"What we experience in dreams, so long as we experience it frequently, is in the end just as much a part of the total economy of our soul as anything we "really" experience: because of it we are richer or poorer, are sensitive to one need more or less, and are eventually guided a little by our dream-habits in broad daylight and even in the most cheerful moments occupying our waking spirit."

Quidquid luce fuit tenebris agit: and the other way around.

Friedrich Nietzsche

I had a dream. I could fly. It took some time to learn. In my mind I would take off all my weight and rise, sublime. It was a mental thing, not physical. I didn’t have to wave my arms or kick my legs. I don’t have wings. I could will myself to do it. I no longer can. Life changes. So do dreams.

I had a dream. On morphine, about a little girl who was red liquid, not like blood, more like undiluted raspberry cordial. She lived in a cylindrical glass container. All that could be seen was her eyes and mouth and a faint outline of her facial features. She had beautiful eyes and a gorgeous smile. She happily lived with her loving parents and sister, who didn’t notice her differences, in an old converted warehouse. There was no lid on her container. Her greatest fear was to be spilled. Her sister would deliberately spill her sometimes. Not a lot, just a little to tease her. They were very close and her sister didn’t realise the damage done. You couldn’t just refill her. Once she was gone that was it. When she slept her face would sink back into the liquid. I never knew her name.

Rick Martin

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