I was on a beach. The sand was plastic and pink, and there were little plastic toys scattered in it. There were other people there. The water was clear.

I had to do something important, so I was leaving. Actually, I think someone was telling me to leave, to go somewhere else. There was a big building behind the beach, a museum, it was mint-coloured. I went up its steps and stood by one of the marble pillars. There was some kind of machine there, a little box, saying something really important. I think it was related to my mother.

Ah, I remember now. The water levels were rising. The beach got flooded. My mother was in the water. She said something to me, but I can’t remember what. I think that when I was in the office building, I was looking for her. I couldn’t go get her out of the water, and I think she drowned.

I have a very strong impression of standing by the mint green marble pillar, by the little machine box, and having a disembodied voice tell me something extremely important. It was so, so, so, so important. I needed to remember it at all costs. I have to remember it, but I can’t. It’s always there, at the edge of my memory. This isn’t a joke written to spice up a piece of fiction. I know that it’s important, and that I need to remember it.

I wish I could. Even now, the little details are leaving me. The context. I can’t remember anything aside from the colours and the strong sense of isolation. The air smelled like floaties (I like that smell). I wish I could dredge up more of this dream.