Minced up fragments of the day past re-emerge, like shuffled jigsaw pieces, in dreams. The world-imagining parts of the mind which serve experience when they are not assimilated to it, take whatever they can find lying on the floor of their workshop to accomplish their task, they don't care, they are not being held to a high standard. During waking life the day-crew are fed a continuous belt of articulated sensory content, their work is easier even if they need to work faster, but over the years and the endless near repetitions they too have become lazy. Perhaps that's the only difference. The parts that run the experiencer don't change much, which is to say that waking life doesn't in the main require a waking experiencer, there's nobody there to notice whether the curtains are open or closed, responses are mostly automatic, even the so-themed creative ones, as long as the lights stay dim, as long as no more is needed. The subject stays asleep, that is, stays involuted, absorbed for the most part in sensations and fragments, stays in the field of dreaming. These dreams of the subjectivity are mostly invisible anyway, they are palely flowing abstractions, slowly swirling periphera. And in the same way they are cobbled up out of experiential trouvailles, subtleties of taste and texture, of feeling merged with thinking, implicit memories left over from immediately past experience.