I cannot discern much from the deep heavy sands of last night’s dreamscape, and certainly cannot straighten those twisting, shifting fragments of my subconscious. Characters bled into one another, melted seamlessly; each figure was but an idea with many masks. But there a few shards, now well polished by my waking mind, that I can see. I am sitting in a hair salon next to my cousin/my friend/a benign female character waiting for a faceless stylist who finally approaches and shows me a frothing bowl of grey liquid, supposedly my hair dye. I try to protest but she, that blurred woman in white, tells me that it will turn out much redder on my hair. When I finally look in the mirror my hair is a soft, sad purple shot through with gray. I love it. The dream devolves into a shifting, featureless desert. Now I am flying low over the impenetrable snowy canopy of some Northern forest, muted purple hair waltzing in the wind. The vague knowledge that I am flying too low and that if I crash into the thick trees they will never find me leaks into the back of my mind but I am too free to care. I finally breach the tree line but manage to scramble onto a giant snow drift resting atop the canopy. I see a woman with her young son and an empty stroller walking down a sidewalk carved into the drift. I wave and know that I am saved.
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