The streets of Canada.
Instead of streetlights, the sidewalks are lined with large speakers that night and day transmit a voice giving a never-ending lecture on a French author whose name no one knows. Or at least, I don’t know.
The voice speaks French, and its speech is mixed with a little English, but it’s an English I do not understand. Sometimes the voice mentions names, but they are not the author’s name, they are all for reference, like the name of a critic or a contemporary. I remember the name Margot Blanche being mentioned as the author’s biographer.
Every once in a while, the voice says something funny, and laughs about it. When that happens, I feel a quiet rumbling on the earth, and a vague murmur like the distant sound of an earthquake. It is the entire country of Canada, laughing in unison.
I decide to flee the streets and go to the little apartment I own in the dream. I sit down and write some verses. A voice, not the one in the speakers, talks to me and transmits some lines of poetry for me to write down. I was listening to these verses when the alarm went off and I woke up. I cannot remember the verses.
