In the house, in the city, but the upstairs has changed radically, floorboards replaced with cushions and tiles. Some people are preparing for a trip. Michelle is one, another resembles Alex, but through the melted glass his face is obscured. Also, he wears a hat. Michelle is looking for Chris, he is nowhere to be seen. He was around earlier but left, dressed in a long beige overcoat, the stereotypical look of a private dick. I try to assist the search for the unexplained trip, but am prevented from doing so by boxes cluttering the stairway.
Long pause between posts owing to house moving and a lack of internet connection for over six weeks. Most frustrating. The intervening period has however furnished me with some new and skewed meanderings inside the subconscious underworld. The first, as you can guess from the reference to a certain daily newspaper, is from a while ago. The second (a double post to make up for the absence) came from a book I found whilst packing that contains notes on a defunct record label, conversations not appropriate for verbal discussion and occasional nocturnal recollections. 15. A warehouse, not dissimilar to Asda, where everything comes in multicoloured stacked boxes. Most boxes hold copies of The Times. I tell someone that they're not selling because they're not as cool as the new Berliner format Guardian (depressing how sad I am even in dreams). Later, am on an island, a little like the one in Lost. At one point I even ask when Walt is coming back. There are a crack team of commandos a...
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