From the Pretentious Annals of my Subconscious
Last night, I dreamt that I was searching fervently for copies of Nabokov books. I queued for hours at the front of what looked like a record shop until I got to ask the clerk, in French, not if he knew where I could find any Nabokov, but if he knew where I could find a copy of the Neutral Milk Hotel's first album (perhaps because it looked like a record store?). Somehow, he knew what I was really after anyway, and he sent me on a covert mission to the secret basement of the shop where there was a whole dusty English book warehouse. The books were arranged alphabetically by colour; don't ask what this means; I don't know. I had to evade capture on my way there, through a dusty labyrinth of stairs and dead-end doorways marked by emergency exit signs. I got there, and it looked like a fallout shelter-cum-mouldy library: the leftover set from a 1950s cold war movie. But, I was much distressed because when I found the 'N' section of this secret book fair, there wasn't any Nabokov at all. There was a copy of Thus Spoke Zarathustra in the 'N' section, but it was by marked as having been written by someone called Carter, which I found even more distressing than the lack of Nabokov. I mean, where I am in life if I can't even identify which titles were or were not actually written by Nietzsche? Obviously, I had to Wikipedia it upon waking to placate myself.

Analysis, in short: I really need to get out more.

Extended Analysis (including actual things that happen outside the realm of my dreams): to follow.