In My Dreams All the Furniture Are Dancing

There is an hour at night—Was it 2, was it 3?—an hour when, in every apartment, every house, every place in the world, the chairs stop pretending to be chairs. The tables lift their trumpet mouths and play. A rainbow mushroom pushes through the marble. The curtains rehearse a scene from Cocteau and the mirror, finally, shows the other room—the one that was always there.

Through the looking glass, behind the manners, behind the masks, behind the good taste and the right angles—we have seen this place before. In a painting we can't quite name. In a film where a woman walks through a door and the door has changed its mind. In the museum that Malraux dreamed, the one with no walls, where everything belongs because nothing behaves.

Here, a sofa remembers Pompeii. A surface holds a sound it has not yet released. A canvas breathes—the way dreamers do. The artists in this room are the dreams, the ones we share without knowing it—the ones where form finally slips its leash and beauty stops being polite.

Come in. Take off your shoes. And leave your certainties at the door. Because in here, all the furniture are dancing.