October 22, 2004
In this dream, I'm walking up a long winding dimly lit hallway in the old house. I've lost my way again. The wall paper pattern is faded, but appears to have been tiny roses at one time. The wainscoting has been painted a faded peeling green. Pictures hang dressed in endless frames on rusted and warped wires. Askew the wall runs in sudden and curious angles and vertiginous elevations, while the pictures maintain their plumb. Although I can't be certain. In this world what is and what is not plumb. One of the frames is missing: the frame of reference.