The forgotten images of a
dream dissolve before a black silhoutte that emerges from them, as if
this figure had walked through a movie screen and ruptured the
projections upon it. I don’t visualize myself in contact with this
shade, but begin to feel strong pressure bearing on different parts of
my body, which I know he/it is exercising. I curse it and tense my body
to resist.

  Then, I am in a warm, ample
apartment (I don’t  know if I live there or am visiting). I
receive a letter from my friend Miss T. When I open it, I find inside a
small vinyl record of Ormandy conducting the BPO in Brahms and marvel
that O. could ever play this well. There’s a window, or what appears to
be a window with heavy wooden shutters, in the apartment I go to more
than once. When I open it, however, it does not give a view of the
outside but simply shows a section of a bleak, spartan wall.
Nonetheless, from somewhere, gusts of icy wind blow through this
window. The wind carries a voice I listen to attentively, but whose
words I cannot recall.

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