I am too reasonable in my dreams. I stick to the probable. I approach someone and they move away. I ride a bike uphill and stop for lack of breath. I unbutton a blouse and find a manikin underneath. My dreams are doll houses for the will of others. Why do I bother imagining? My dreams inevitably have a sore throat, or a pain in one knee, or a lisp, and to wake up after that I have to live it all again that day. New combinations, yes, there are those, but they never unlock anything, certainly not a truth. What a word: truth. I prefer the dentures of falsehood. Dainty fibs: they amble. Truth: sounds as heavy as a crowbar. But falsities, ah, you can really sink your teeth into them. Go on, have a squeeze.