The City of my Dreams

I often dream about a big city. It is the city of my dreams. Literarily. I always cry when I get there. It feels like coming home. Often I would call it New York, but it isn’t. The city of my dreams looks completely different. Not even nice. And completely strange. I always wonder why I have such an affinity to that city and at the same time it is almost repulsive. Huge Buildings, wide and empty streets with lots of empty space. You almost can’t walk there. It is too big. It is a city on a hill. I have to climb or drive a long way up to the top. Last night I sat in a highrise building on top of the hill. I looked out of the window and cried because I finally got there.
I wonder why this place keeps coming back and how this place that I have never seen before and which doesn’t look like any place I know always looks alike and how I can be so moved and feel so at home when at the same time it feels so strange. Even in my dreams I wonder.

Prophetic Dream

This night I woke up with the sentence:

There are times, when the only good thing to do people can think of is
to empty the dustbin.

This strange billboard suddenly appeared in my neighborhood.