I had this weird dream last night, I wrote.

I thought the bitterness of cigarette in your saliva was rather similar to the taste of blood.
Did I tell you that I thought the music you wrote was very good? Yeah, I did think so. You are pleased. I'm pleased to see you are. I've always liked your sincere face whether you frown, explode with fury or bear discontent, try to catch implications, you come to a conclusion or decision, and you are satisfied and even smug or disappointed and distressed, but most time indifferent. I am not sure if there was any illusion sometimes.
And your dad is a dancer? He danced for me to your music for a short while when you've gone, only using his upper body. I am sure it was for me, because he looked at me trying to observe my reaction at the end of his performance. Once he started I soon knew his performance was going to impress me. It was quiet, succinct and modest on the whole but there were also poetic implications with intensity, just the way I like things.
You kindly asked me if I wanted to have a rest so if I wanted a bathroom. When you left me by the door of the bathroom, I realised that the level of the bathroom was at the height of my knee. I had to step up as I went into the room.
The bathroom was dim and grey, but it was shimmery with warm yellow light, as the bare cement wall indicated its very skilful hard-working labour so is he proud of himself.
It was a spacious room but didn't include a toilet nor had a bath. There was only a rubber hose attached to a water tap and a plastic wash bowl on the floor.
I needed a wee so I just pulled my trousers down then try to wee on the floor. As I was uncomfortable of doing it I couldn't relax the muscle to pee for a few seconds. And I started to worry whether I was being watched once I realised that there was no toilet tissue. I turned my head around the room and found a little window, felt bad. I poured a big bowl of water to wash it away.