we cannot write someone else's dreams, but we may make pictures that become portals within them. no one could make these shapes that seem to dream themselves. i felt as in a frozen dream that stayed after the storm of the night into the clear blue light of the sun, waiting to be discovered on our walk. we walk in a dream that stays. i felt the ice reminding me of something i could not place. the heart in winter. then i read the first paragraph of de nerval, the dream is a second life. childhood was a second life, left in a dream. suddenly it reappears. it is. renate dreamed last night of portals too, of a series she had to go through, to go through a series of portals in a world of dreams. not to be done, but to awaken in this one, the dream is the work of the soul. the dream is never done. it becomes solid in the cold, in the light made form, reminiscent. in her dream the ice was water. in the morning we walk out into our very own waking dreams, dreams as solid and formless as our bodies in dreams.