The Dream  

Freud smiles in his sleep when we, bathed in sweat

and confused, emerge into wakefulness. For half the night

we were wandering along sidestreets and cul-de-sacs of the

unconsciousness, which was playing for us a compilation

of evergreen hits. When they were right on our heels,

we fell into bottomless pits; in the middle of

bizarre tests we were gnashing our teeth, wearing Adam’s

clothes we floated over a tsunami, which had engulfed the

landscape of our childhood. On occasion it plays for us a

tune to pass the time: Mother Teresa, young

and chubby-cheeked, drops by for a cup of tea.

I hurriedly prepare a tray of pastries, but the cookies

pile up, pile up. Suddenly they are everywhere:

on the table, on the chairs, in the bathtub, in the shoes,

on the head of the noble guest, in the folds of

her white dress, over which clumsy me pours Darjeeling tea.

Ashamed, I offer her my wardrobe. Mother Teresa

sighs, picks out my favourite jeans and asks

her accompanying hares, who hop enthusiastically

across the sky and pelt us with clover flakes,

whether she can finally go back home.