I assembled bookshelves. That’s it. I spent the entire dream assembling bookshelves.
Some were huge floor-to-ceiling monstrosities that the owner would be better off building the house around. Some were small and squat, like an under-window placement. Some were retrofitted cabinets or armoires, so when you opened the doors you had double the shelving space.
Some looked so flimsy I didn’t think they could support a comic book, much less a hard cover book. Cheap shit made from compressed cardboard and glue, with a paper mache surface roughly painted to look “artsy”. Some were solid walnut, mahogany, or cherry. Dense enough to support an elephant and a pain in the ass to assemble by myself because of the weight. Most were what you would find in Ikea or Sears. Cheap enough material to be affordable, nice enough looks to be presentable, solid enough to hold the damn books.
None of them were for me.
But I was still glad to assemble them. As the last completed one was picked up by unseen workers, I had the sense of a hard job well done.
Dear subconscious, sometimes you scare me.
I think I’d rather have tea with demons again. At least I’ll be sure to have some interesting conversations.