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Last night I dreamed I had been invited to a conference on Continental Philosophy at Roland Barthes’ house.
When I arrived I was taken by a servant to see him. He received me in his bedroom, welcoming my arrival from his Louis XIV bed, a plate of biscuits and bowl of milk on a tray in front of him.
I was taken to my room, which I had to share with three others. Being expected to sleep on a bare, single plank of wood, I asked to see the manager who, I was told was Monsieur Foucault. I was also informed that seeing him was unnecessary since he could monitor the movements of conference delegates at all times. Furthermore, if the accommodation was not to my satisfaction alternative arrangements could be made with Doktor Heidegger. The attendant then directed my gaze out of the window and across an icy plain to a series of barracks surrounded by barbed wire.