It’s windy, long after sunset, windy like the walls have turned to mad waterfalls and scimitar earrings and babbling drums and ogre stomachs and horse fists and harried mornings shouting in the shower into their cackling wrinkles and — suddenly, rising above the clash of stormy windows and the dishwasher’s digestive wormsong, the windchimes on the porch glimmer and ring and — then for a long moment the electricity goes out — and returns. The dream subsides like a tumbleweed rolling off into a ditch. You feel momentarily like you were made for any other century than this one, in your fantasy you live far beyond the tired world, you are ancient like a witchy spinning wheel, even as you are already half virtualized and living half your life online, you are anywhere but right here in your dream, the present is so hard to live in, you are lost in thought, you are dreaming you are the windchimes, you are dreaming you are the lamps’ reflections, you are dreaming you are a dishwasher for words that have gotten too dirty or smudged or crusty, you are dreaming of dreaming.