New Hampshire. I dreamed such vivid dreams last night in the White Mountains, a series of bizarre scenes that arrived with the force of revelation. A world without the color green. A man who repainted all the seashells on the beach. My parents appearing and disappearing in a parking garage filled with water. These dreams had a heat and pulse that reminded me of this quote from Haruki Murakami: “It felt as though a fragment of real life had slipped into my sleeping mind by mistake. Then the moment I awoke, it fled like a quick-footed animal, leaving no trace behind.”
Each night in 2020, I wrote a short post for a series called Notes From the End of a World because I wanted to etch these days into my memory. Before the world changed completely.
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