In this context, here's a dream from the night I read the critical commentary, note the "commentary" and not the text, of Dario Fo's play, Accidental Death of An Anarchist
We were in a dingy rectangular building, inside a cube like hole-in-the wall sorts room with an attached loo. You were taking photos of me in a small rented room in a busy building in some part of India. could be south or north, coz no one really bothered us. But then I went to the bathroom to change the costume and you had invited another man to the room. That man was one of the many who had been rendered homeless after demonetisation, so you opened the door of our shared room to him. I got uncomfortable at that and quickly changed back to normal clothes and three of us left the room together. Outside there were many people who were homeless, thanks to demonetisation. People living in tents. People hungry, thirsty. So many of them. And I am looking at them, wondering why I had reacted like that when you had tried to help that man. Sometime during the dream, there was also a demonetisation song, more like a protest song, that I had discovered sudddenly and then was rabidly sharing with people, wondering how no one had found it before me. It was from the 60s or 70s and was Indian, don't remember the language. You were making photos of me in the manner of a smitten photojournalist chronicling "a day in the life of a prostitute". This makes me a prostitute, but your body language was also of a pimp, so that makes the building a brothel and the other man, another customer. The building had sweaty cosy rooms, mostly dirty. Stank of Piss and burden and unhygiene. And it was autumn, with harsh May sun. hot indoors but slightly cold outside.