Just for doing any journalling at all: I keep dreaming of knowing a place in the Bavarian mountains where a half-overgrown old ruin of a wooden house stands, forgotten and far off and I move in and sort it out a bit, make it beautiful, tend to the plants around. And live there secretly, often in a kind of escape from something else. I wonder how much congruence there really is from dream to dream about this house, it evolves I would say. And I love it.