In the diffused, muslin light of dream, buried within the night, I find my self attending another burial; arranging the shroud of my long-dead father.
I am in a silent theater whose edges fade into the unknown. A baseless creation save for the moment my hand brushes against my father’s coarse, wavy hair. This is as real as the last day I touched him, as real as hands and fathers, flesh and hair, dreams and the night that made them.