Big sandwich, little sandwich: the delicatessens of the unconscious

I had a dream last night where I spent forty-five minutes trying to attract the attention of a fat café-owner so that he would sell me a sandwich. The sandwich, which I was eventually able to buy, had been made using a whole family-sized bloomer. It was big – inappropriately big. But when I got the sandwich back to my table to eat it, I found that it had shrunk. Suddenly it was no bigger than a small hotdog bun.

Can a (dream) sandwich be a microcosm of your whole life?

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