Dream Rushes

[poliphilo]

I'm waking up and I really don't want to. The dream I'm coming out of is full of colour and feeling and meaning- all of which I see swirling away from me- out of reach. The essence of the experience is grander than my workaday brain can handle and will soon be unrecoverable;  all I can do is make a determined effort to hold onto an image or two to act as mementoes. I have asked for initiation... my training is going rather well... I feel light-hearted and boyish... I use my newly developed magical powers to create a mountain of porridge- rather more than I wanted. One of my companions shows me how it should be done by creating a witch's cottage made of sweetmeats, with a grotesque face- borrowed from Matthias Grunewald- tucked under the chimney stack. The magus whose pupil I've become is the gruffest and most formidable of the dealers off Channel 4's Four Rooms...