I dreamed about an old house. On the walls upholstery in colors of blood and gold. The rich decor. Full of antique furniture. On the walls paintings in gilt frames.
In one of the paintings I felt the spirit. He whispered to me and the owner of the house, with which I was, a fragment of a diary.
One of us was on the shelf this diary, we started to flick through it. I knew already that the spirit foretold the death of the old owner. That she also knows and waits.
From this image flew a golden dragon
may phoenix. He paced the dark blue night sky. He circled over the house. He was a harbinger of the inevitable changes. Despite the death threat he was positive. Without words said, that death is not the end but the transformation.
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