Always, the dreams.
Dreams never remembered save for impressions of hurry, of movement, a sense of familiar place, all gone in the instant of waking.
Dreaming became waking life.
Beginning in the night as soon as she closed her eyes, seeping like ink spilled on a blotter into the morning, into the day.
Things worth remembering– a wounded bird giving her messages, the bird now changed into an ancient man, her father as he might have been had he lived into old age.
Always the dreams, but never the memory.
Waking and dreaming, endlessly circling.
Almost seen, never seen.