Ten past nine. Time doesn’t matter. What matters is I lost you. You hugged me and drifted away in the shadows. You said it’s ok. You said you’d be back by nine. I tried to call you but I couldn’t remember your number. Your number. The one I called thousands – countless times year upon year upon year. I pushed the memory button but that didn’t work either. Anxiety turning to desperation. I start to panic but I try to focus. I start again, digit after digit after digit. Together they look familiar, perhaps I’m getting somewhere. Yet somehow I find it impossible to dial your number to the end. Either I loose track or the screen gets blurry – finally the battery goes dead. Best I can do is wait under the clock. Or wake up. 
A recurrent dream.
October 7th, 2016
The Humble Fabulist 
It made me a little anxious, I must admit. xo
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I dream it every time I need to channel my anxiety, I guess. In different places but always full of people. And the colour is always this grey, sometimes mushroom brown, rather monochromatic. This photo is close, it reminded me of it.
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