I know I remembered my dream this morning. I remember remembering it. And memory’s infallible right? I remember someone telling me that once…

SO WHY THE BLOODY HELL, sorry I don’t do angry well, WHY THE GOLDARN CAN’T I REMEMBER IT?

When I was a kid I remembered every dream; the one about the black hole of Calcutta, the one about the omphalos and the dinosaurs with men’s heads, the one about the ditch and the maze made out of family members, where someone was chasing. They were ripe for analysis, heavy with psychological fruit. But now, when I have most need of blessing, wherefore can not I pronounce ‘Amen’, why no dreams?

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About GriddleOctopus

There are few harder things in life than introducing yourself, especially in print where mellifluous nuance can turn to indulgent wankery. So. I am definitely a 'writer'. You could also call me an 'artist'. I could probably put the words 'designer' and 'consultant' here too, but they feel crass.