Last night I dreamed of Sumire. At least I though she was Sumire, she sort of reminded me of Mukami's muse in Sputnik Sweetheart except that this girl may have been a bit lighter and frail and certainly does not have Sumire's disposition; but besides the point, I dreamed of a Japanese girl with pitch black hair that cascaded to her shoulders.
She was wearing an unpressed kimono and her face reminded me of a million Japanese horror movies. Well it was a nightmare, mind you, but it wasn't the in-your-face scary type, it's the chilly staccato of some instrumental piece, say Beethoven's Fur Elise, just before the trivial climax as she raises her hands and worships (or gazes) at a Japanese floral painting that hang on the ceiling.
The surrealism was the nightmare. It was the idea of staring at awe and ignoramus, not knowing what to do, or rather being incapable of doing anything but stare at her pagan ritual that sent shivers down my spine. Woke up to the sound of a kitten meowing the night away. And I stared at the empty ceiling, scared and sleepy.