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The dreams I hate the most are the ones in which I either run away from people who want to hurtmeharmmekillme or I run around looking for peopleplacesbuildingsfaces. Actually, I don’t hate them per se; I just don’t like them.

Then, there are the dreams in which I am running down flights after flights of stairs. In those dreams, I am usually in a rush to get somewhere. I speed down those stairs so fast it almost seem like I’m flittingfloatingflying. I hang on to the handrail real tight in my mad rush, and leap off from the third last step, flinging myself a hundred-eighty around to the next flight of stairs.

Never once in my dreams have I found whowhatwhere I’m looking for.

My dreams reflect my life.

My hobby is tracingtracking and unearthinguncovering. I do it at flea markets and old shops in old neighborhoods, but mostly at flea markets because I can haggle. It’s important that I be able to bargain; it’s not how much I’m willing to pay, it’s how little they are willing to sell.

I love old items - items with their own histories and pasts. At flea markets, I buy only things that are cast-offhand-me-downused; I have no use for the newunused ones - I’m not particularly fond of those. With nopastnohistory, they lack personalitycharmallure.

If you put it all together, then I’m an open book.

I’m obsessed with purchasing histories and pasts - cheap histories and pasts - because I have none of my own.