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I always dream in this rich city (it can’t be prevented). On the white gravel of the parade grounds of the residential palace there lies a small blackish-brown heap of dog feces that must come from a very small dog. It casts a spell on me (the baby is sitting in the carrier). I can hardly turn my gaze to the triple arched portico or the Hercules fountain. No matter how hard I try, it keeps sliding away from the calm baroque façade to land on the dark little heap. I decide to go back to the marble gateway, just as a class of school children surges onto the parade grounds. The students gather around their teacher and listen to his explanations. Now the little heap is even more on my mind, and when the school class enters the residential palace, I immediately look for it. It has vanished. Not a smudge of it is left, not a crumb is to be seen. And the baby at my breast is also gone, and in his place is a little white dog that is licking my face. A voice tells me: This is a dream from which you cannot awake.
BabyBuddha 