The Impossibility of the Dreamlife of Others

Not even to mention the dreamlives of objects, the atom hum within the spaces left amidst matter. But, as snow begins to thread and drape us this morning, I wonder about the spaces opened every night in the heads of others. How can we access dreams, and even if we can, will they be rendered flickering, like old Super 8 film? What are the dimensions of that action: how long a field does one play upon while asleep? How wide is it? Is it backlit snow against more snow against emptiness? Is it the spectral action of curry powder, baby oil, and sea monkeys whirring amidst gold? Is it an Aronofsky dreamlife? Is it the slow rotation of space itself, as seen via Kubrick?

The car parked below seems at first to be solid. Nothing moves from here except for the first stir of weather. From above, of course, the snow does not fall straight down, not like rain, which—seen from above—looks like straight converging lines. Snow begins to curl with the pattern of the air, and by the time it's twenty or thirty feet below, the combined effect is one of chaos. We are amidst the swirl, able to track it for perhaps half a minute, and then it devolves into lack of understanding. And that's okay: I am okay with trading off comprehension for a moment of determinism, something I can grasp, hold onto, at least until the solid gives itself a way and becomes more formless again in my new slick hand.