Just use my meringues for window decorations, turn the perfectly realized dairies into garages, so long as the milky sun rises in the east. At least then you’d know the direction, and you could walk back, when one morning you find yourself on the plowed field standing by a dentist chair, still with this silly bib on. Some will call it a nightmare, not I. As always, it’s polite conversation that scares me the most. I’d rather ride on the knee of the colonel, scold a mailbox: “Now wake up, God damn it,” I stood and yelled, “wake up!”