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...BEFORE THE REALIZATION THAT IT WAS MUCH TOO LATE DAWNED ON EITHER THE HOSTS OR ITS PARASITES.

THE MELANCHOLY OF DREAMS. THEIR ABSOLUTE FUTILITY.
For the majority of my adult years I never remembered my dreams except on rare occasions. I am certain that I did dream, since they are essential to our survival but the memory of them passed as soon as I woke up.
Recently this situation has changed. Now I can't even take a nap without having full color epic dreams. They tend to be mundane narratives, an extension of daily life with Surrealist plots that inevitably present unsolvable dilemmas.
In a recent dream, I covered all six sides of some sort of workspace with an unbroken surface, the rind of a navel orange that had no seams. In the dream the folly of the experiment was revealed when I discovered that rats were burrowing into the space from the outside in an attempt to get at the pungent wall covering.
Last night I woke up laughing. In a dream I asked what some guy's name and the answer I got was "Her husband." Apparently I thought that it was a funny name for a man. I was laughing so hard that it woke me up. Unfortunately I wasn't the only one my laughter woke up. I heard about it this morning. In retrospect it isn't even that damn funny but last night it was.
I preferred it when I didn't remember the dreams at all. Life is confusing enough without having to be burdened with an additional subconscious level of pointless information. I used this Roberto Bolano quote on a similar work before this current period of dreaming began. It is more appropriate now than ever. Let me forget.

I am channeling my inner Sophie Tauber-Arp.