i have no dreams, but find myself suddenly in the middle of the action in some warped counter-reality of our sharply accentuated pedestrian world, where logic follows the school of escher, sequences climb up and tumble down like staircases without landings, the linear perspective is mellowed away, colours and light are sunken in dank latrinary industrial ooze that looks like old sepia photography drenched in an icy slate grey tincture that creates a permanent dusk. i register no words, only their shadow etched in obfuscated ink or pixels. I listen to voices which are not interesting by themselves or what they deem categorically of vital importance, but relinquishing my attention, the concatenation of rhythm, tone and amplitude sounds like the murmur of the sea, the rushing of my blood deeply trenched in my body. i walk in desolation, because everything around me has this bitter-sweet melancholy that cowls over the furrows and potholes of misery ravaging lofty expe...