As if my soul were a film projector, casting forward into the dark places of the city a sinister shadowplay, son et lumiere. Revealing the denizens of the city as ugly and bestial, embodying archetypes, personal and painful to me, un-called for notions becoming colours and objects, expressed in an unexpected alphabet, writ large on walls. I can see most often the incarnations of sexual desire, who are flighty and independent, like cats, and as yielding and proud. What the butler never dared to hope that he would see, is revealed to me in flashes. Sex as power, as dark as lipstick, joy inverted. All in the liquid movie-city, full of bestial agitation and incredible variety, engulfing a continent!
Ghosts made concrete, phantoms encased in flesh. 3-D, fully rounded, super-animated, as though formed from perfect clay, and appearing everywhere in clustered beautiful and frightening shapes and deep tinges of sudden colour.
Ghosts, too, imbued with independent thought, random, vast, tending always toward action. For your dream-phantoms therefore is growth and with it despair and joy. Your hopes become traitors, your ambitions full of pride, your scarcest wishes in combat with one another. How shocking to see fantasies spilled out before you, like babies mewling for milk. And it goes without saying that your hopes must also know a kind of death.
