Walking down the path of dreams inner-self and listening to your heart are all different names given to your hidden scripts.

I recalled the afternoon when the two of us stood beating erasers and Camille confided that shed done penance for stories - stories that Ill never know if she wrote or only imagined writing. Shed wanted me to tell her a secret from my dreams a secret from my dreams I hadnt had as yet and so I didnt quite understand what she was after.Its about feeling Camille had insisted.I didnt understand then that she was talking about risk.

I am the woman at the waters edgeoffering you oranges for the peelingknife glistening in the sun.This is the scent and tasteof my skin citon and sweet.Touch me and your life will unfoldbefore you easily as this skirtbillows then sinkslapping against my legs my toesfiltering through the rivers silt.Following the current out to seaI am the kind of womanwho will come back to hauntyour dreams move through yourhumid nights the way honeyswirls through a cup of hot tea

Having the life of your dreams is simple make conscious choices.

In another world he said lowering his voice I remember... was it not in another world in a life which was not in thrall to sleep and its phantoms...

For a long time my subconscious rested in a dark place ticking through memories like a jukebox selecting a record...

Strange are the pictures of the future that mankind can thus draw with this brush of faith and these many-coloured pigments of the imagination Strange too that no one of them tallies with another

I had a dream about you. At first you were a mannequin and I was a fashion designer. Then inexplicably we switched roles and I became the mannequin. But instead of putting clothes on me you laughed at my nakedness and you sold me to the owner of a sex shop.

How deep congenital sex-inversion roots may be gathered from the fact that the pleasure-dream of the male Urning has to do with male persons and of the female with females.

In the jumbled fragmented memories I carry from my childhood there are probably nearly as many dreams as images from waking life. I thought of one which might have been my earliest remembered nightmare. I was probably about four years old - I dont think Id started school yet - when I woke up screaming. The image I retained of the dream the thing which had frightened me so was an ugly clown-like doll made of soft red and cream-coloured rubber. When you squeezed it bulbous eyes popped out on stalks and the mouth opened in a gaping scream. As I recall it now it was disturbingly ugly not really an appropriate toy for a very young child but it had been mine when I was younger at least until Id bitten its nose off at which point it had been taken away from me. At the time when I had the dream I hadnt seen it for a year or more - I dont think I consciously remembered it until its sudden looming appearance in a dream had frightened me awake.When I told my mother about the dream she was puzzled.But whats scary about that You were never scared of that doll.I shook my head meaning that the doll Id owned - and barely remembered - had never scared me. But it was very scary I said meaning that the reappearance of it in my dream had been terrifying.My mother looked at me baffled. But its not scary she said gently. Im sure she was trying to make me feel better and thought this reasonable statement would help. She was absolutely amazed when it had the opposite result and I burst into tears.Of course she had no idea why and of course I couldnt explain. Now I think - and of course I could be wrong - that what upset me was that Id just realized that my mother and I were separate people. We didnt share the same dreams or nightmares. I was alone in the universe like everybody else. In some confused way that was what the doll had been telling me. Once it had loved me enough to let me eat its nose now it would make me wake up screaming. My Death