Had really scary dream last night. It was about a mother and a daughter. The mother was like my mother. The daughter was a little girl though. They were on TV and I watched while packing up a series of thin booklets into boxes as though back in those last stolen days at 907. Those booklets were wads of the green saving coupons taken for free from outside Kaplan's along College Ave. But they were white instead of green. On the TV the little girl was watching TV, which showed a series of horrifying, disconnected images that widened her black eyes. The mum came to sit with her on a couch and carrying a white box. She was packing thin, white booklets amongst other stuff and I forgot if she said anything to her daughter. The black-eyed girl picked up a booklet, which turned green, and flipped through it. Then she looked up and shrieked, "They're are from here!" Now it would have been a really nice dream if I could only remember what those broken images signify and how they form a mystery capable of being satisfactorily solved. But the point of dreams and suppressions are that you are made not to remember them. Could I have suffered weird fantastic trauma with those green savers? Food and car repair. Can't remember that either.

I realised how hard it is to resist the temptation to be restless and attraction for the weird. On reflection though, when the weird and the sad get too candid, they are back to human. The strategy is to judge, or to think about JP. The former I'm bad at from the beginning and yet hesitate to learn about. As for the latter, at this moment I'm immensely infuriated by his getting book prize for German studies, and that the Italian department didn't offer any. Oh how helpless it is with the love of a language! When you can't practise it anymore and are not even sure if all that's associated is interesting and never loathesome.