Last night I was sitting at the table of the local bar, the “somniferous,” located at the corner of consciousness and sleep, a series of thoughts and images rushing through my brain. I make a distinction between thoughts and images, because thoughts may also be images, yet they are of the processed variation, with mat gloss and serial numbers on their back. Images are images, they have an independent existence and jump out like spewing lava from the creative mess of my subconscious. It is fun sitting at the “somniferous” with its little round tables decorated by a bricolage of multicolored flat stone, like the opus sectile on the floor of the basilica of Junius Bassus. As I sip on my aperitif I notice that strange combinations of consciousness and images is concocted in my head. I think of auburn hair, of friends and walks and then the image, in black and white, of an old truck (from a silent movie almost) descends before me.

The truck is lowered on a system of pulleys. Damn, how do I go from dating to trucks? I mean I can explain everything but for the truck. I guess the pulleys are a direct reference to rock-climbing. Oh, I just got it, the truck is me. I am in black and white to indicate I am old and I descend slowly and safely because I am being held safely in mid air. But why a truck? Why should I come in the form of a truck? I will ruminate over this for a while as I now have lifted myself from the comfy chairs of the “somniferous” and prepare to read my student’s equally somniferous papers.