This is turning into a dream journal. I don't remember ever having had this many dreams at any period of my life. Maybe it's the desperate need for sleep that does it.

Not Russia. Somewhere else. Somewhere European. A city of cafes and architecture and slow-moving culture. I was marking the essay of a college student who I can stand, but only barely. G^j was there; she needed to talk to me. She would meet me at the end of pier H in an hour? I realised after she left, taking something with her, that in a little more than an hour I had to return this essay. Confusion.

Somewhere else, in the same dream, Ralph Fiennes (Onegin-hangover?) remembered the gentle delinquence of his youth.

It was a novel, unravelling in my head. Complex and structured and layered. Not weird, except by reference. And by it's very being.