In the early hours there were dreams, episodes in which you were caught up in some tasty little drama, and on waking, after you'd surrendered the desire to be in on whatever was going to happen next, your curiosity for the next turn in the unfolding plot, you could shrug and file the remaining fragments away as commentary on a situation you easily recognised, on one of the current little dramas that occupy the background of your day. If you think back, six months or a year or two, you will barely remember what the dramas were back then, but you'll know that they were there, identical but different, and that in their undifferentiated mass they felt much the same as now. By day this is the weight of irresponsible and unresolvable venturings that you always carry about, and that you look to the future, to the passing of time, to cure. By day you are cradled in it, in this obdurate matrix of self-referential predicament, this answering resistance, this dense and inevitable vehicle, this intimate opponent or sense of fundamental wrongness. At night, in sleep, the conditions begin to melt and to flow, and there is a sort of agency, a power of a more integral self by way of imagination, to shape them, or even to dissolve them. The sovereign imagination is exactly what you have let slip, what you've allowed to become absorbed in the living, so that it teases you with never-ending hints and keeps you searching.