The dreamer writes down his dreams in the morning, if he remembers them. It horrifies him to think that there have been dreams he cannot remember, almost as much as it unnerves anyone to conclude that recent parts of their waking life have gone unrecorded, as though unobserved and unreal.

He has already completed one book about his dreams, a loose-leaf binder holding a year's worth of them, carefully noted down on lined paper. Now he has dreamt about that binder and begins to formulate today's entry. He can describe the binder even to its troubling bottom ring and faded endpapers—and suddenly recalls that he has already done so in still another binder, containing his observations and descriptions of things like tattered binders.

But where is that binder?

Labels: Dreams