Another suburban train, another school teaching day ahead of me. Not enough sleep, not enough dreams or time for the brain to flush whatever it is it has to clean overnight as we sleep, if it true that , as they say,that is the function of sleep and not that of a communicating vessel between universes, between differently instances of you in unreachable places, if places they are, in contemporary tines far away, if contemporary is a word that can make sense when talking about universes that go along different narrative tracks, along different timelines. Four hours’ sleep. Not enough.

I only had time to have a small peek at another place where I had lived all my life –instead of this newly autumnal London, that small sunny town in Northern Italy where I have never been. Didn’t get to make it to the house I live in, which I share with some other musician whose face or name I cannot recall. I was on my way there, finally, after long murky journeys, when I had to get up and put out the alarm. Yes, 5:20 am again –it must be a Tuesday and it must be a school teaching day in Watford for me. Does it get more difficult each time, each new iteration of the cycle? You bet.

Tags: dreams, life of flav, sleep, the dreams that dream me