To avoid a rupture between night and day, as Walter Benjamin recommended in One-Way Street, I incinerated the guilty dreams of an entire year, gathering them along with two other guiding ones that were published earlier.

Almost every night I would wake up and jot down in code whatever I had reformulated in the morning, on an empty stomach. Knowing how dreams belong to the literary construction site, I processed them just as they were, without the lyrical bias of my other writings because, it seems, the unconscious is literate.

However, I became exhausted, as if I were watching a tedious film festival from the balcony, and I decided (did they decide?) to check my compulsion by publishing them. And while I share Adorno's opinion in the Protocols of his dreams, how with certain dream experiences one experiences death as cosmic destruction, I am not sure the individual experiences their life as a dream.

And because the dream does not care much for the elegance of formulations, I aimed for the navel of the dream and surgically cut it. Finally, I erased the note of the corresponding date in each dream protocol, considering it as 'personal data' that should not be disclosed.

Thus it seems to me that I protected the glowing embers of the night from the daily championship. The dream is not itself, like a poem, and does not preserve the memory of its dates.

The reason for its publication, nonetheless, exists: it was seen in the crypt once. The hardest part? It became linguistically existent in order to be recorded and repeated.