I wouldn't be asleep for quids.

In the dream I'm smoking cigarettes with Michel Onfray and I'm pissed off he's here because I wanted to talk to him before his fluff piece feature in the lesser of two evil weekend time wasters.

Fuck you, I say, you're only in my subconscious now because it's convenient for you!

A girl walks passed. I laugh at the syntax. The universe is round.

That may be so, I can get his French accent right in my sleep but you should hear me slay it when I'm awake. But I am 'ere now, so let's talk.

I smoke. He smokes. Mutated flying fish dance on the water beside us, holding hands and spinning circles. It's a cobble-stone street and I can see Inspector Cliche in his beige hat reading the New York Times on the other side of the cafe.

Onfray laughs as an ambulance screams past.

He says, It took off like a homosexual comedian! Weeeooooo!

Don't quote that cunt at me, I say, his material kills but his prose is conceited. Still, I do love that fucking line.

I lean forward and I'm ready to talk when all of a sudden I wake up and it's dark and cold and the rain is knocking on my back door, let me in, let me in, so I get up in time to see the back of the night as it disappears, the fog its spurned lover, the rain the notes of their song, the rising sun the caring parent, come to console the frozen earth.