I fly   I have recurrent dreams, some of them, I repeat. I dream that I fall, from high up and wake up at the verge of death, with enormous anxiety. I dream that I fly; I dream that my father returns. He was not dead after all, but had been travelling, or lost or something of the sort. The other day, I dreamt that I was flying. In order to be able to fly, one has to raise the shoulders, lifting them as if saying "I do not care". You raise slowly first and you float in the air while you keep the shoulders in the position of I do not care. This is the recurring technique I use in my dreams. This dream, took me flying over the farm, over the pond. At my side, there was a duck watching me and saying I do not care with the wings, so that I would imitate him, and fly more, and care less. From high above, half hidden by the trees, I could see Sussana, with a pair of sewing scissors, she cut the grass. She approached the pond, and I thought she was about to fall in. But she did not. She continued with the scissors, track track track. She started to cut the pond's water, making a huge circle. The water let itself be cut like paper. I remembered, in the dream, a film, called "The process", a very psychoanalytic film. There was a scene - also of a dream - where a pair of scissors cut a paper curtain that had painted eyes on it. I said to myself, "Do not worry, this must be a dream." Descending, I approached the grass. In the far distance I could see a young woman, but could not recognise her face. Listening from above, I could hear her contagious laughter. Staring at her also from the distance, her ways and movements attracted me. I neared her, slowly. The closer I got to her, the more her face was covered by a cloud that hid her. Her laughter fading away ... there was no way I could recognise her. I went to fetch my camera to register her laughter -that is exactly what I said, in the dream. I entered my bedroom and there she was; again. She was looking to herself in the mirror. Still I could neither see her face nor recognise her figure. With her back in front of me she said "My breasts are bigger, look, look, touch them." Almost touching her back, I wrapped her body and embraced her breasts, without recognising them. I could not say if they were bigger, but I could tell, that the more I embraced them, the harder - or perhaps bigger - they felt. "Look, I have a cleavage", she said, while she turned and pressed her chest against mine. Excited, pressing one against the other, we fell tumbling to the floor. Meanwhile I continued wondering about her face, that I could still not see. The dream fades away now. I do not know what happened to the woman without a face, to her growing breasts, to her excitement, to mine.