I dreamed that I was in a huge, luxurious bathroom with many stalls in a rich house. The ceramic was the color of sand when the sun sets on the desert (that was a very specific detail, for some reason). There was concealed a faucet behind the stall line; it was more private, no one knew about this space. I was washing my hands and I noticed a small and very old funeral portrait hanging on the wall.
It was the picture of a Chinese man on a tapestry, guarded by two small swords. I take it into my hand, we start to talk together. He tells me that his name is Jun Tsu and that he did a bunch of writing back in his time. As we are speaking about all and nothing, the portrait breaks and the tapestry in the back of the picture is getting bigger and bigger. Jun Tsu’s bust is now on the table, but it was his real human bust, not a statue. He had a round face an a goatee.
We can talk better this way. He is explaining that the portrait was taken as he was about to die so he feels forever the grip of death around his chest. I wonder how I can make the tapestry shrink back. He suggests that he can be my new clock, because time is the essence in the war.
When I woke up I realised that it was not Jun Tsu, but Sun Tsu, writer of The Art of War. I must had got the accent wrong. I’ve started to read the book this morning. What an enlighten man. I especially like the quote “To a surrounded enemy, you must leave a way to escape” … (or the art of playing with your food.)