The juxtapositions you encounter in dreams are more peculiar than anything in real life or even in fiction. Of course they fade away the moment I come round, so I forget the details, but before I woke up this morning I was dreaming first about a war memorial in a supermarket and after that, wearing a golden dress with a black hat, I was driving a shiny, black, open-topped car through the concourse of a railway station.
Now I was in a supermarket yesterday, having visited the VIA-Rail station (on my bike! in the rain!) to claim a refund (not needing to meet my mother at Toronto any more) and there's a prominent war memorial in the village—Schabbach—of the film series Heimat, that I've been watching again while doing the ironing, but goodness knows why those particular clothes and the car were in my subconscious. What an exhibitionist I must be. If I were a professional writer I'd keep a pen and notebook beside the bed to tap my dreams for all they were worth the moment I woke up, as Graham Greene did, but I'm too lazy.