They usually appear in vivid colours, embossed with patterns. Even people look like statues engraved on souls.

Last night I dreamed of air. Not trees swaying gently or with fury. Not dust circling the ground and then lifting up into a cloud. Not sands swirling like a soufflé. Not skirts billowing over frilly knickers. Not shirts clinging to muscular bodies. Not hair flying like a magician’s scarf. Not howling sounds in beastly forests. Not the yelps of help at window panes. Not ocean voices in muffled ears. Not the sting of bees on honeyed lips. Not the gush in eyes that leaves no room for tears.

I dreamed of air that I could not feel.