My dear #####,
I had an encounter with some manifestation of you in my dreams last night. A vivid one. Yes! I’m sure it was you. I am, apparently, visiting your home. A hall with white walls, floor and ceiling; mostly empty, some furniture scattered here and there. (you home in my dreams is different from your real home). **** is sitting alone at the far end of the hall. You’re sitting in an armchair in front of me. I’m dazed by the brightness. Things are spic and span. ‘You’re in control,’ I compliment you. You smile. And take me downstairs. It’s your brother’s house. A retired army officer, I am tempted to believe. He’s recluse and withdrawn. I don’t see him. The walls are white, but space dingy and dirty, damp air is locked inside like dead in a coffin. That’s when I wake up to the darkness of my room. I check time: 4:32 am.
What does that mean? You’re not in control? Or I am not in control? But what bewilders me the most is that you managed to come into my dreams.