I have a reel about being back in the colossal motel and having the same dream over and over again. I must have stayed there for weeks, it was so impersonal. The place I mean. It stuck up, concrete sticking out of a concrete wasteland. This dream was I’d be in Marrakesh where I’d never been and I’d be running away from Rick who was chasing me in a hearse. My only course was to run out into the Sahara beyond roads so he couldn’t catch me. I’d spend the rest of the dream out there. Dream by dream the beginning got left out, shortened, or implied until I was having a dream just of being out in the desert. It was everywhere and it was just the essence of experiencing unpleasantness. I suppose I was always naked for I don’t remember (re-visualize) clothes. There was compulsion. It wasn’t the usual, indescribable, rootless, pointless compulsion of dreams and nightmares. It was logical because it followed on the fact. You’ll know those pathways of duck-boarding they put across beaches in hot climates so you can get to the sea without roasting the soles of your feet? Well, here there wasn’t any pathway, just the sand which was very hot, oh very hot, oven-hot. There wasn’t any sky that I was aware of over this desert or if there was my attention was fully occupied with the sand. You see the logic of the compulsion? Christ, how I had to move, dance, run, jump up and down! It was better in the air if that’s what lay above the sand so getting one foot out was the best I could do since even in dreams I’m no dab hand at suspending the laws of gravity. However, using all my mighty dream-intelligence, I evolved a compromise that given time might even be a solution to the problem. I bent down and endured my burning feet while with my hand I made a hole in the sand. It seemed logical at the time that this should result in a hole so deep and black it was sickening, like a hole in the universe, but it wasn’t burning sand. If I bored enough holes I had a space to put a foot and escape the burning; at which point I would wake up. Sometimes when I stirred the sand with my hands I found I was writing a strange language or making pictures and this would give me room for both feet and I would wake up. But my real trouble began when I took enough pills to knock me out flat because it meant I didn’t dream which was of course the object of the exercise but the dreams simply waited for me and when I woke up there they were, and I would have them in the bar or wandering round the concrete waste in which, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make a hole with my hands and all I did was call attention to myself. I must have moved on. However, the dreams came too.