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I sit on a couch telling a man about a dream, all very Freudian really. He asks about a dream I had when I was young, it reoccurred for many years of my life, he asks me to describe it to him. This is third time I have seen him. He has an office in the big building down off Queens Street, its tall and there aren’t many rooms to rent, in fact I’m not sure if there are any other offices in use. The room itself is comfortable; it’s darker beige in colour, high ceilings, leather furniture, a big mahogany captain’s desk at the far end of the room. Next to a bookshelf against the back wall is a door, likely to a closet and the light is always warm and inviting. I sit comfortable leaning back on the soft leather of the chez and start into the dream. I am seven years old and I am playing with other children, we are inside, but not in a room, a long hallway that bends round. There are tall walls all around and they are made of steel, the kind you can make out reflections in, but they are distorted… [ Read More ]