1. I dreamed with a washing machine. A flying washing machine. And the machine was smiling, as it has a face, and eyes and a mouth and all the general things that children draw when they are required to portrait a face at an early age. Early age children, I mean. And the machine was smiling, at me, and saying: " I will wash you". The horizon was of a foggy turquoise tint. And I asked, Washing me? Washing me from what? Or why? sweating and almost shouting, as the machine look heavy and menacing flying over me; without answering my questions, it smiled again and slowly disappeared in the green fog. The clock rang strenuously, as alarm bells do. The metallic tingling trembling around my head, already drowned deeply inside the unapologetically disordered pillows. What is this? What is this? I say without muttering a word. The light entered already by the curtain edges. Oh come on, another day to work. " I am glad you have a work" , the uncle has said once. I guess, he is right. And I am wrong.