He must’ve known those people, sometime, some year, in the distant past. But whose past? The voices sounded far away, in a language he thought he should remember, the faces in semi darkness, when he knew that – somewhere – it was already daylight (but he could not be completely sure).
At last he looked out, from the vanishing dream. There was sunlight. He was alone, the voices had gone, the faces vanished. Everything was there, as it had been the day before. He had just slept longer than was his due.
Earlier, he realised, he’d been out, in the street, in the fog. There was a group of people, talking. It was in the past. Whose past?
Photography: Brassaï (1899-1984), Avenue de l’Observatoire dans le brouillard, c. 1934, courtesy Christie’s Modern Visions