The dream in charge of clerical gestures winds toilet paper around my neck and says it’s time to perform the ceremony. Naturally, it’s a Sunday. On the count of three the naked day steps forward, trembling, unsure of being seen.
As usual I have been somewhere else, adrift in the effluent of my mind, most likely.
But then a scroll unfurls from the office wall, telling me to look outside through the window.
That done I will now record what I have seen. A cloud field made orange by the setting sun. A garden scene with a yellow watering can. A naked collection of trees. But no rain from our western regions. No woolly mammoths. 