I dreamed that I went back to my home in Puebla. It was in a state of ruin. My mother had hired a handyman to redo the floors, yet everything was falling apart. Furthermore, the tiles were of the most varied kinds, and even though they were composed in a sort of pleasant way, it was obvious they were a potpourri of unrelated tiles.
I went to the living room and there was a car parked there. I knew it was my fault: I had arrived home in that car, and I had somehow managed to put it in the living room, but now it was impossible to drive it out.
I went to the room at the entrance. Carlos Albicker Jr was now living there, like a feral child in subhuman conditions. I raged at the situation, feeling hopeless. I looked at the entrance of my home, it was now super long and there was a shallow pool in the middle entrance. Some turtles were baking in the sun. Others at the bottom were obviously dead.
The room at the entrance transfigured into a reception area, with glass panes looking towards the entrance, and bookcases to the back. I thought this was wrong, the bookcases ought to act as a privacy curtain between the public and private inside area. I deflated at the amount of work I had to do.