I have always had a hard time remembering my dreams. Most disappear within seconds of waking up, le aving behind only a vague sensation that something happened somewhere beyond memory. Yet, on rare occasions, fragments remain burning on the retina a little longer, and only then does their strangeness become apparent.

Faces dissolve into one another, bodies bend into impossible forms, familiar places lose their geography. I move through these landscapes as if intoxicated or with my eyes barely open. Rather than walking throu gh them, it feels as though spaces, objects and anonymous figures pass through me. They exist without logic, yet while dreaming they seem entirely natural.

By morning, I have no idea where I have been. I wash the strange taste from my mouth, the sweat from my face, and begin the routines of the day. Then, unexpectedly, images return. They surface without war ning, piercing ordinary moments like delayed echoes from a place that no longer exists.