Here’s the last dream I had. Were I someone else, I’d consider it a nightmare. But since I find real life far more frightening than 99% of my dreams, this was a quirky ride through my subconscious funhouse instead.

I was invited to a party being held at this spacious mansion. When I got in, I found that I was one of hundreds of guests present. The door locked behind me, and I found I couldn’t escape from the place. The hostess turned out to be the ghost of a woman who resembled Charlotte Rampling; she kept her own perfectly preserved corpse strung up and used as a marionette.

I went up to the bar and ordered a glass of absinthe. Even though I was clearly thirty years old, the bartender refused to sell me any alcohol without first presenting ID. I didn’t have any ID on me, so the bartender refused to serve me the drink. I spent much of the rest of the dream wandering about the mansion in search of absinthe, but couldn’t procure any. I even came across someone else’s derelict glass of absinthe, but when I picked it up, it turned into a cup of coffee before my eyes. In between trying to satisfy my absinthe craving, I tried ordering White Russians as an alternative, much to the same degree of success.

At one point in the dream, I met Tori Amos, who got flirtatious with me. I repaid the favour, only to have her almost immediately sour towards me and ignore me henceforth.