In my dream the girl knows what an aedile is, the Roman magistrate in charge of public buildings, and our conversations are tendrils of smoke underneath the obtuse right-angles of a perfectly platinum-white ceiling. The talk is of stairways and porticoes, the oneiric potential of the edifices we live in.
Only of course the girl has a morbid fear of obtuse angles, borne from a bad trip in the Chelsea Hotel. And: There are other worlds than what you know. Obtuse angles bred from the girth of buildings and grow is what they do: they never stop.
So what starts as chitchat over a cigarette grows into dreams and fantasy before turning in on itself into horror, terror, the daylight delusion of a bad trip’s flashback. There needs to be laws agaisnt such things; we need to contain the buildings we meet in: we need to try and and live without them such as we try to do in our dreams.