I am awake early for a rehearsal. I slept about five hours and managed one of those intensely plotted dreams of which I retain only a fragment like a movie trailer of a woman in a high-waisted white Empire gown running through a pre-dawn or dusk the same drowned blue as her eyes; she is stumbling down an empty road with clouds hanging over the fields and as she runs her face begins to stream like water or ectoplasm, coiling and thickening the air behind her. The funny thing is that it wasn't a nightmare, but I don't know what it was. I would have thought one thing if she was running toward the sea, but she wasn't.
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- 1: A lie you told to the maze I'm in
- 2: Wrote a scholar from the island that they kept from me
- 3: There's always somebody downstairs
- 4: But somehow the vital connection is made
- 5: Many arms around the mast as your ship starts cracking
- 6: I do some of my best work in the British Museum
- 7: I made a deal with the devil, but I never got paid
- 8: How do you love? How do you solve the etiquette?
- 9: And I'm sorry that I forgot that binders don't go in the dryer
- 10: Trying my best to arrive
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