I sometimes dream her, and always forget what she has said

She advocates sitting with tea near dreamtime, equating a morning silence with something mystical.

He is beginning to accept that he is set in his ways: routines do not suit him. He prefers the edge of a circle, a banana with a vitamin, eggs rotting slowly in the refrigerator.

Perhaps, he thinks.

He spent a month tracing the contours of the word mystery, this without tea, but in the end produced a film about mustaches and geese, peppered with the old external acting, in the style of Charlton Heston and Richard Chamberlain--the only way to know that a man feels is if he is screaming it into the sky, the rain, the sea, the sea of monkey faces.


Responsibility is a word she counters with moral vision. She bandies it about town, but will not tell how much it cost her.

I have grown tired of the sound of my own thoughts, and women always cry in dreams.