Then the two merge together and reincorporate him. The screenwriter awakens and writes a description of the dream while it’s still fresh — as if trying to photograph a shadow that only moves in the night, returning to its sanctuary in the river at dawn. He’s trying to remember where the dream was set, and thinks it took place in a city, but somewhere far from the neighboring country’s capital. He turns off the light and goes back to sleep. He dreams of some things about which he’s already written, and others about which he’d like to write, things he always fails to recall on awakening when they’ve returned to their sanctuary in his unconscious. Nevertheless, while still in bed, he goes over the note he wrote during the night. His handwriting is almost illegible, but it doesn’t matter: he still remembers the dream — although a little less clearly — and what he manages to decipher from his notes supplements what he’s forgotten. He gets out of bed and freshens up, has a look at himself in the bathroom mirror, takes a deep breath, and then heads down to the canteen for breakfast.
