There is a dream I remember having several times since I moved to this place. I seldom remember dreams, and almost never remember them clearly. This one is all fragments and dissatisfaction. It takes place in a house in which I live but it is not a house from the waking world. It is at the end of a long road of large houses, and it backs up to a small river. It is surrounded by large trees and gardens gone wild. The house is large and rambling, and I wander through it, looking for something. I find many disused rooms, spacious and well proportioned, some with furniture covered in dust sheets, some with views of the land sloping down to the river, some with large skylights, many with interior French doors leading to adjoining rooms or, sometimes, to an atrium or a walled garden. But I never find out what it is that I am seeking. The only thoughts which come to my mind are questions. I am always wondering why I don't live in one of those pleasant rooms. I never see the room in which (in the dream) I do live. I always wake from this dream with a feeling of deep melancholy and a sense of loss. I have no idea what it all means, if it means anything at all.