I dreamt of zombies on a mountainside, devoid of arms. I dreamt that Gina gouges out her eyes and that my child is named Nymphe Dora. That’s what I remember. I do not remember what happened on the other side of the mountain and which creatures live in the shadow of the fir trees. Who is Gina? And I don’t remember any birth.
Since we started watching Game of Thrones, cruel dreams whip through my consciousness. Everywhere there is fire raging, and cold smoke blurs the view. Delicate yet fierce lines intertwine these fragments of imagery, piercing through scattered memories and filling the crevices in between. Dogs, dolphins, and genitals serve as filling material. Tiled corridors, pavilions, and bare trees gather into thirsty gardens and construction sites.
Blue ballpoint pen, tool of the fleeting, the banal, and the carefree, nurtures and strokes the new lawns and staircases. Tentacles wind around walls like ivy. Glancing along cool surfaces, you cannot trust your own eyes. Nevertheless – since my dream shreds are no longer homeless, I finally sleep on my back again.
Since I draw the backside of the mountains and the shaded life under the fir trees, the nocturnal images trot amiably through the days. They no longer bare their teeth, and my eyes are no longer black-rimmed like those of the giant panda.

Text by Teresa Mayr