The sun is on the other side of the house and the dill is green, like smoke rising into the overhang. The air is wet and flavored with pepper and red bee balm. You're on your way to Greece, past Long Pond, to work. It is still hot. More dusk, not dawn. I wonder if you're running the AC as you drive? I imagine it's a busy Saturday.

Nothing shocks you as much as seeing headlights of an on-coming car when you're not expecting them, and to have them suddenly move away from you, angling by harmlessly, and you are actually on your patio asleep, becoming consciousness that you are the same everywhere.

Take any point in a dream and connect it to another and an imaginary parenthesis is set in sand. A story given its chance, its own rains and seasons, a set of lights and its own scenery. Future and future perfect is its dominant speech. It is skinned and protected. Cooler when it runs. But a mole sprouts, a growth that becomes irregular--darker, lighter, squarer, fractal crazy like an incisor misplaced in vitro, or bug-sized point, that blends. It blends, a fast little engine. Full of escape.