In my dreams, there is always some kind of bathroom.
Or the difficulty of finding a bathroom,
which upon waking is always the most lucid thing about the dream.
In one, there are corridors lined with doors.
One of them has got to be a bathroom.
A plane is about to take off from the tarmac, a plane I need to catch.
Finally, a door that opens onto a room with tile, a sink, commode—
But I retreat: the copper sink is full of blood.
In another there are people dressed in tuxedos and ball gowns.
The house is full of velvet drapes, plush Persian carpets, marble statues.
A grand piano sits resplendent in the drawing room.
The windows open to a view of hills at sunset.
But everyone is moving around frantically like moths with colored wings.
Everyone needs the bathroom.
And there is no bathroom, no apparatus for privacy or relief.
But there is a bench in front of the piano,
with a hinged top that opens in the manner of a toilet seat.
In response to Via Negativa: Semi-lucid.