I couldn’t find my apartment; Bill Vartnaw tried to help me find it, but my door wasn’t where it had been. My memory seemed vaguer in this dream, but this was only a dream-image if it. My street had changed; I dreamed a different street. I had never seen a place like this dusty room, which opened to a closet under whose floor was mud and a hall into which I rushed surprised to sink over my boots, and had to be pulled out of it. If these are symbols, what are they symbols of? At church one knows what things stand for; one knows the cross is a symbol because it is out of place. But a dream is not a church. I have an image of my memory, and, remembering this strange dream, I have images of it, not itself, and an image in it of me, not myself, unless the dream-memory is not only an image of memory, and the dream-self is not an image of me.

30 July 1983