it seems when i dream i dream of homes. oh ok i am sure i do dream of other things but the few small fleeting pieces i tend to remember are the ones where something happens in a house.
in this one i have a place in a rather large ornate building.
something has happened to get all the residents together. we are milling around, talking, discussing. it is late summer’s evening and night is drawing in.
whatever it was that has gotten us all up has been resolved and people are returning to their flats in the gothic bauhaus it could have been a school-church-hospital building we are living in.
i am the last to leave. i am just standing in the garden looking up the street. it is long, wide and empty, not a soul about. at the top is a building that could be hawksmoor’s christchurch. behind it is the last of the dying sun, above it is a halo of dark night and vicious clouds. a perfect photo i think. better get the camera and tripod.
but realising i have forgotten my key i decide to not disturb anyone by climbing the outside of the building to get to my flat.
as i climb up the christchurch look-a-like is replaced by something with a dome.