I dreamed I was working on a balcony hanging over a deep narrow chasm, separating two halves of a great city – or perhaps two cities. The architecture was of the post-Romantic period of the late 19th Century. The buildings were spacious, lofty and overtly regligious in nature. Everything was stone, steel or silk. The ladies wore Ophilian; the men Aurthurian.

On this ornate metal balcony I was in the process of tearing a circle of what looked like gold, but felt like soft pita bread. I was exhausted, having toiled at this single task for years. People, elegantly dressed passed me by on their way to enjoy the view from the balcony.

Suddenly and without an sort of fanfare, I managed to separate the two pieces, completing my task. I stood there motionless for a moment examining the two separate pieces alone. I took a deep breath, rose to my feet and rushed from the balcony and into the streets shouting “It’s done. It’s done. It’s done,” I cried over and over and over.  Jubilation slowly swept across the city. I felt, no jubilation. Only relief. Filling my lungs before each announcement, I felt free, as though the shackles that had bound me for a lifetime had been shattered, and I was at last free.