A dream of a dirty floor.

The other week I dreamnt:

I'm standing in a relatively empty room that has a gray shellacked concrete floor, and behind me about a yard or so is a large roughly plastered white concrete pillar, and over to my right a bit is someone, and we're mad because there's an empty schooldesk in front of us and it seems somehow disheveled, and I know that some thoughtless young 20-something hipster girl left it all messy, though now she's nowhere to be found.

In my head, I can see her, with a black cap drawn over dark curls and a pale face with pancake makeup, her head drawn into the folds of her large frumpy bulky black coat hiding her body in its large folds, though she doesn't seem particularly large or particularly petite, instead she's rather solidly-built and middle-framed, though I can just see her from her shoulders up.  In my head, her eyes are downcast, but not out of shame, but rather self-absorption.

I draw closer, and all over the floor right by the schooldesk, forming a box of relatively neat parallel lines bumping into each other, and then in a shorter close-together zigzag off diagonally just beyond that, is like a set of full dull mauve lipstick smears, straight full lines again and again and again forming almost a constant patch of color in the square, though if you look closely at it you can see a bit of floor peeking up between each line, in the solid patch of color.

. . .