A summer evening. i pace in front of a communal brownstone. As the huge moon is almost as hot as the sun, i keep to the shadows, then go inside.

There's a hallway with a bedroom at its end, door open, two unmade beds, no people. In the livingroom, there are several empty sofas. When i sit and look around, the auras of more and more people appear, until i see that the sofas were always almost full.

i take a notebook from my bag and begin to write. The young man sitting next to me asks what i'm writing. i reply that i just had a dream i don't want to forget. He  asks if the dream was interesting. i say that i won't know until i write it down. He seems perplexed. "Writing is not fundamentalism," i say, "It's a journey in  which the writer doesn't know what will be said next.

 

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