Dreams are said to be a method of working out contradictions in one’s own personal existence that are too weighty to stand the light of day. The rough treatment of settings and transitioning from location to location occasioned by the phantasmagorical personages serving as stand ins for ourselves tend to offer a scrambled set of conclusions for pondering during the light of day. Consider though the import of dying within one’s own dream or perhaps being posed upon the razor’s edge of same. The head severed fully from the body by some unspecified guillotine yet still functional upon a corpse that struggles to stay upright so as not to displace it. This farce continuing on through several chapters as both parts seem to hope for the best that reintegration of past association is imminent.
Those cloistered in the attics performing former religious rituals finally donning hooded cassocks for a display of anonymous solidarity by filling up the steeple stairs to a higher region nearer to their fiction of a celestial savior. How like the growing schism between government and its populace where both sides prepare for a dissolution that is inevitably deemed to be fatal to both. Rather than bind one’s self to the foreign asceticism of an arcane indecipherable modernity, better to come back down to ground level and deal with the fact of the reality of an outside threat. Commonality of purpose being driven by the all too evident facts at hand rather than a new soothing narcotic rhetoric fostered by those double agents who have no place here save for husbanding ruination.