It had just stopped raining in a dark city; very dark, only a few lamp-like windows. I was walking up low, stone steps that made no logical sense, then back down a slope into a carpark overgrown with wet elm trees. Empty fields of grey and brown were beyond it.
Another dream involved an installation in a dream-library. A display which formed sphinxes and obelisks from levitating strands of light and matter, moving outwards from the back of the room, over bookshelves and our heads. The room was at an unbearable slant. I was watching with the architect of this installation, she was showing it off proudly, like artists do.
There is a brown tree with yellow leaves in a crumbled courtyard that I keep walking past. I will get a picture.
It is autumn, the best time of year, “the king of seasons” with the best colours. Autumn and the late afternoon are inextricable. They're the same sensation, the same colours.
I imagine having a drawing by John Berger in a small, square frame. I think I should copy one. If I think of him closely while I do it, it might invoke his hand.
The leafless orchard,
Laughs in tearful blood,
Eternal, mounted on his wild yellow stallion,
Roams autumn, the king of seasons.
