Days live from the legacy of the dreams that precede them as if the night's dreaming is mother to the ensuing day. Dull days possess a deceptive simplicity, they are products of dreams that cling invisibly, unable to relinquish the dreamer, to release the imagination to the uses of the day. The mind is subdued, damped, soft and possibly sweet, until a peculiar reactivity is discovered. It was so collected, so sufficient to itself that it finds itself out of rhythm with everything else. Events appear both banal and strange, everything takes one by surprise, and the sheer disjunction of the real throws back a sense of hopeless misdirection which sets off ripples of despondency. Have you ever understood anything at all? Or worse still, have you never understood that you can understand nothing at all? In this way, through shame, one gradually and partially awakens, awakens to the effortless persistence of the dream.