Memory. Remember. I am almosting it. I dreamed I was wearing red slippers and scarlet pajamas slashed with gold. I remember rising from a red carpet and walking amongst my sisters in the street of harlots. I remember the sea wind, and sickness around me but I was not afraid of death, only of becoming lost. In my dream, i remember now, my menarche shocking my mother into her old age. She sees me with pity and jealousy. I am what she was, another herself. She’ll murder me, the fear of God in her face. Laughing, she will, she’ll gobble all her family. I remember. I was. I gave a melon to a king disguised as a carpet merchant. And then a shift. It was as if in that instant, that moment when melon became gift or closer in, the moment when melon was simultaneously mine to give and his received, both and. That moment something confused. That instant of transformation I became not the dreamer but the dreamed. I saw myself stuck to a rock on a beach like a diseased mussel. Dull, waking from sleep, but waking to a different place and in that different place I remembered my life. I was almosting it. I felt myself in a bath languid, and I spoke to a woman and I stood by a grave. I saw keys, crossed and held up my fingers, two keys crossed. And then and then goddesses, three moving slightly, breathing. Do they have? And I heard music, a song. I listened so beautiful see me. You see me. And and and and what and what I spoke against God and flew. I flew. I could feel myself flying, a bird flying with three fangs in my mouth and I understand them. Forgive them. Yes. Fate that is and I fell. I fell. In a house of death I died and I don’t know what else. Because you don’t know. You never can know.