I woke from a dream the other morning struggling to settle upon which word he’d used. I was on a journey. I was to meet her and we were to go somewhere together. I had an address. She didn’t come. I knew this even before I got to where we were supposed to meet. I wanted to send her my phone number but I couldn’t remember it. The numbers wouldn’t come. Nor would the address. I was in a huge terminus. I was on the top floor looking down on thousands of people milling around below me. Then he was there. We looked up to the roof. There were faux clouds that looked like they were made from kapok or cotton wool. There was no sky. I could see dust in the corners. “We can see the beginning of the clouds here,” he said. But I think he meant to say birth. The birth of the clouds.
