Many years ago I dreamed that I was walking along the Zurriola bridge behind a young couple pushing a baby stroller. Suddenly the bridge collapsed right where they stepped and they plunged headlong, together with another crowd, into a whirlpool of furious waves, foam, debris, and screams of terror. One day I dreamed I pedaled in a frenzy at the Anoeta velodrome because the track was made of foam rubber and I enjoyed tumbling off the bike from the top of the banked turns. Among the frequently recurring dreams, I remember the gigantic passenger airplanes I saw crashing in the city center — they disappeared behind a building, collided with a roar, a profound silence followed, and I felt compelled to search for survivors—; I recall how my teeth loosened, fell one after another, filled my mouth and I had to spit them into my hand to take them to the dentist; I remember erotic dreams — and I won’t detail these because you’re reading this for free—. Other nights I dreamed I was flying, flailing my arms, I spoke with my dead father, someone rang the doorbell of my house and when I opened it and saw that it was King Juan Carlos I I wouldn’t let him in.
The week before, a friend I hadn’t spoken to in a long time called me. “What a strange coincidence,” I said, “tonight I dreamed of you and now you’re calling me”. She grew animated: “Do you see it, do you see it? Tell me, you who are so skeptical, isn’t it amazing how dreams anticipate what’s going to happen to you?”