Each night, the same dream: I’m an odd Victorian mansion in a field of wheat. And I’m either waiting for the field to catch fire or the hearse of love to pull up to the manse. Don’t wake me up, please. In daylight, my mother talks of brideliness as a measure of time: in a kind of flower, a narrative of ascension. I intimate some sort of border is being discussed, but I can’t concentrate for the sake of all the beautiful things claiming my attentions in the tawny fields. There, a blankness without meanness, such as one finds in a naked sea with all its fundamental majesty.