ONE SUNDAY MORNING, I climbed up to the light from a weighty and complicated dream, nothing of it left but a ringing in my ears and the ache of something slipped from my grasp and fallen into a crevasse where I would not see it again. Yet somehow-in the midst of this profound sinking, snapped threads, fragments lost and untrackable-a sentence stood out, ticking across the darkness like a news crawler at the bottom of a TV screen:
One Sunday morning, I emerged from a deep and intricate dream, feeling a lingering echo in my ears and a sense of loss for something I could no longer reach. The remnants of the dream faded away, leaving behind a feeling of melancholy and elusiveness, as if important pieces of my experience had disappeared into an unreachable void.
Amidst this profound sense of disconnection and the chaos of lost threads, a striking sentence emerged clearly, standing out like an urgent news banner. It encapsulated a message that cut through the darkness, reminding me of the book "The Goldfinch" by Donna Tartt, which seemed to resonate within the context of my experience.
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All the things you can talk about in anyone's work are the things that are least important.
Race of Cain, ascend to heaven, And cast God down upon the earth!
