They were tiny, too tiny for the child that they belonged to. I was holding them in my own hands when the alarm went off. I remember the frailty of them and the light shining through the skin. The child, who could’ve been L., was have a tantrum. Holding her hands quietened her. It was a complicated, new moon inspired, dream. I was trying to get somewhere and had failed to find it, twice. Then I found a piece of paper with an address on it. And then there was a photograph. I know that place I said to him (for he was there too), I’ve been there.
It’s funny how reading and writing are virtually impossible to do in dreamland.
