I read the first part of Camus’s L’Étranger before going to bed last night and it made for strange dreams. The first was one which felt joyful: the GF, my siblings and I were visiting Paris and the Seine ran through a deep forested ravine, and the metro system was a series of small planes or gliders, black, shiny and bulbous, with a dull orange stripe like a bumble bee, and one held onto the top to fly down the ravine, following the course of the river. It was, as I said, a rather joyful feeling dream, full of wonderment.
The second dream was awful. I remember only glimpses of it, but there was a pyramid, work being done, my mother’s funeral to arrange, and my mother was there as well amidst the arranging. It left me unsettled for the rest of the night, and I got out of bed late this morning. Serve me right for reading Camus before bed.