Sans soleil

One day he writes to me: description of a dream.
More and more my dreams find their settings
in the department stores of Tokyo,

the subterranean tunnels that extend them and run parallel to the city.
A face appears, disappears... a trace is found, is lost.
All the folklore of dreams is so much in its place that the next day when I am awake
I realize that I continue to seek in the basement labyrinth
the presence concealed the night before.

I begin to wonder if those dreams are really mine,
or if they are part of a totality,

of a gigantic collective dream of which the entire city may be the projection.
It might suffice to pick up any one of the telephones
that are lying around to hear a familiar voice, or the beating of a heart,

Sei Shonagon's for example.
All the galleries lead to stations;
the same companies own the stores
and the railroads that bear their name.

Keio, Odakyu—all those names of ports.
The train inhabited by sleeping people puts together all the fragments of dreams,
makes a single film of them—the ultimate film.
The tickets from the automatic dispenser
grant admission to the show.