I dreamt about you when my eyes were open just as when they were closed. I thought everything was over, but here I am, amidst tormenting pain in my head, smiling stupidly with myself, only because the little thing you did a few days previously made all emotions came back overwhelmingly. It filled me with joy but at some point left me confused.
Quite out of the blue I think of Kafka, I remember in 1 of his letters to Milena him telling her of a dream he had about her, the details of which he couldn't recall except that they kept merging into 1, he was her and she was him.
Beautiful, isn't it? (Just as Kafka's writing always is).
Perhaps I should write to you, should tell you about my dreams. Perhaps you might enjoy hearing it, a little bit.
Or maybe I shouldn't, for now I feel terribly like a naive, deluded little girl who never learns. Maybe I shouldn't.