Dreamt you'd recommended me a movie and made me promise you I see it. Opening, we see a literature class in a regal university hall, they're talking about craft or something. Our protagonist falls asleep in a plush chair, nearly missing the start of the second lecture. I'm learning so much about these fictional authors, white-lastnames getting thrown around attached to all manner of opinions, about how they came into their idea of what it means to speak into the world. Tangle of links and interlinks amass. When I see you, I realise then I'm the one really attending the classes, you're a classmate asking about the readings, and I can't keep up, for the first time in my life I'm hideously behind. I don't quite know what to say. But I do know you-in-the-dream summoned me to watch these films, which was your way to invite yourself into my memory so we could go to class together in the dream. You were wearing a white chiffon shirt and a large black skirt, like in an overlit digicam photograph, and you looked like you did not belong in the sea of hoodies and denim and tweed. We learned by the third lecture that there was a movement going on about originality, the lecturer eminently for it, and frustrated at the lack of it in the world. But we were all there stuck to our seats, listening, and getting up only to swap seats, or exchange tired, knowing smiles. We knew we'd be listening for a very long time.