Can it be called nostalgia? Memories of places and events I could never have experienced? They're not dreams. They occur to me during the day.

I don't know.

A textile factory. Or somewhere they process cloth. I shouldn't be there. The adults are having a party downstairs. It's deserted and cool while the party is crowded and hot. I feel free and content. There are trees outside the window with little lights in them. Christmas? Yes, I think so.

I don't think this ever happened.

An abandoned stone building by the shore. Round, smooth, old. No particular building, no particular shore. Dreams of travelling far away. Dreams of living a hippie artist life. Of painting beautiful, happy things that make people see how beautiful life can be.

Avalon perhaps. A wise woman in the stone building. An ancient, runic power.

She's on her own. A university student. Women's studies. Fighting the good fight. She is my hero. I wish sometimes that I were a part of it. Either in the 60s during the birth of feminism or the early nineties when my Shelly was doing just that.
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