they are not my dreams

After coughing myself into sleep deprivation over the previous couple of weeks, it was a blessing when dreams returned last week. My dreams tend towards the strange, bizarre, grotesque, occasionally nightmarish and often more peculiarly real and meticulously detailed than my waking world. Besides the singularly terrifying or lucid dreams that I remember with no external help until senility will steal my memories, I make no record of them.

Suzanne G. variously known as wurzeltod, Thee Temple ov Psychick Blah, is one of my favourite though not frequently updated blogs, who accompanied by the most sublime photography of Gregory Crewdson (which is really what this post is about) said, last night, I dreamt about being kidnapped by the guerilla troops of London’s underground system.