I dreamed I was only a character in a story jotted down on a postcardfrom an art museum. I could not see the picture reproduced on thecard's backside, nor could I read the story I was in. Icould only stare into the face my writer, dreamy and distantas her fountain pen poked me in the eyes and gougedmy cheeks. But thenshe kissed me, and the image of her kiss stuck to me cool as wetlipstick. Gradually I realized that in her mind, she was talkingto me, telling me...

I was so lonely I had to invent you, had to give you form,just so I could stop thinking about your endless, never realizedpossibilities. You are fixed now as the fictional avatar of myown imagination. Still, you are like nobody I've ever seen,melting and reforming in air, more liquid than solid. Are you,in fact, free? I believe you dream of the nothingness in whichI would feign drown, were it not for you. But in this you mustbe mistaken, for you are only my creature, and I shall remainjust as I am, long past the time when your last memories havevanished. I will still be dreaming new dreams long after I haveforgotten you. Leave me now, neither hesitating nor lookingbehind you, and let me never again see you here or anywhere else.

Then she pressed the stamp over what might have been my left earand dropped me in a mailbox. We were in Seville, and she wassending me to Singapore by sea mail, via the Panama Canal...

Dreamed by: Spraxlo