Museo Nazionale del Cinema

Strange it is to wake up in a dream but perhaps stranger still to enter one while still walking in the waking world. I had a similar feeling, a cousin trice removed maybe, when I stepped indoors that I was not setting foot indoors as much as in doors, I mean into the interior spaces that are at once an expression of the exterior space and not their opposite at all. Giggling fingers were turning like butterflies beating their wings through twisting paths of time, leaving Rorschach impressions on the walls. They spoke in strange languages but not to me. A gigantic lizard loomed on a launching pad to the night sky, open mouthed and comical as a bumpkin in a barnyard. And I was not afraid but entranced by its strangeness when it leaned down to kiss the top if my bent head. And there too was a daguerreotype of a leopard wearing breeches and I saw you (yes you!) rowing the gondola in the magic lantern full of gilded light. Walls spoke and moved and on a tawdry bed or red velvet I slept, awoke with the memory of dreams erotic and terrible and then forgot that I had slept at all.