The earth shakes and we cling to it, the pressure of thousands of bodies soothing it back into balance.

It’s Saturday morning. Through the screen, a rug woven in a labyrinth of snakes jostles an isolated image of night to the surface:

You are wearing cream and white, an atmosphere of milk foam and radiant porcelain light. But the vision doesn’t travel, your hands caught in albumen, mid-flutter.

This is it, a single frame suspended in darkness. But naming the dream isn’t what makes it real and remembering isn’t a requisite for living. Perhaps leaving our deepest joys to the night is a mechanism of survival. This way we’ll keep on waking.

If I had the companionship of memory, I’d tell you everything. Instead I’ll tell you about a solitary moment, the effervescence of sea-foamed air, the sweetcream light of a day with you that flashed in the last breath of a broken bulb.