When I woke from my afternoon nap, I wanted to hold onto my dream, but in a matter of seconds it had drifted away like a fine mist. Nothing remained; oh, perhaps a green corner of cloth pinched between my fingers, signifying what? Everything about the house seemed alien to me. The scissors yawned. The plants glowed. The mirror was full of pain and stories that made no sense to me. I moved like a ghost through the rooms. Stacks of books with secret formulas and ancient hieroglyphic predictions. And lamps, like stern remonstrances. The silverware is surely more guilty than I. The doorknobs don’t even believe in tomorrow. The green cloth is burning-up. I toss it into the freezer with a sigh of relief.