As often happens in my dreams, I found myself in a surreal high place, with no idea of how I got there or why, but with the impression that it was my home.

A potted plant sparked a memory, only I did not know if it was an old gift from a former lover, or a new gift from a long-ago one. I hoped for the latter.

I had to wash my clothes in a queer machine that was silver and turned like a drum, or perhaps like a dryer. I filled it with clothes. Because I had only a few things left and there was a mysterious sense of urgency, I overfilled it. It was on a slope, and clothes and perhaps water tried to tumble out with the pull of gravity. Then it abruptly retreated uphill on a wire-and-pulley system; by what agency I do not know.

I had to lead a pregnant woman, J., down from this aerie via very steep, uneven steps made of books. Because they could fall over when stepped on, it was extremely precarious. At one point, we had to step up, which was even more dangerous.

We came upon a very narrow, short step, and I knew that if I stepped onto it the books would scatter, and I would fall. I appealed to people in the library I could see far, far below, but they replied only that they did it all the time. What happened next I do not know.