This Week in Dreams — A Quiet Week

A staircase descended into water rather than floor, each step dissolving at the ankle. Somewhere nearby, a red door opened onto a second red door, and then a third, the color deepening with each threshold. A clock face appeared without hands, mounted on a wall that kept receding. The water from the staircase eventually reached a library, soaking the lower shelves first, the books swelling but never quite ruined. These images arrived without urgency — the staircase patient, the doors unhurried, the library absorbing its flooding with a kind of resignation that felt less like disaster than like slow change.