In my dreams, I write important telegrams in silver needle thread from my clicking Remington that I stuff into books living inside of the libraries I visit after long journeys on a ship similarly stuffed with books. The ship creaks and moans and poets whisper "tread softly, for you tread on my dreams" to the water. In the study, a group of aging scholars organizes the Busby Berkeley Academy of Dreams before pouring over ancient, yellowing encyclopedias. The sea smells of earl grey tea and fields of cotton. I carry land in my pocket, a small marble shovel tied around my neck. The printing press leaks and faces smeared with black ink laugh, eyes blank and budding like white pearls. Children ask questions such as, "Did Franz Kafka ever see Nosferatu?" and we smile despite uncertainties. Home isn't a place, but a feeling; conveyed through words such as: the warmth of a teacup pressed to my cheek, the crackling voice of someone who has disappeared from the earth repeating inside of my crooked ears, the slant of sunlight breaking through a thick of trees to warm one side of the street in the dead silence of winter, and imagining the wind gently pulling apart your strands of hair is a pair of hands.
Posted by m.m. at 9:11 PM