The dream wedded to the world at odd angles. Where it touched soft humming concentrated the air & it felt hot when you walked through it. Panic at the thought of your mother, lying in the staircase dead. This was nothing like that scene. It was less dry then; there was less light and what light there was was blue, quick, funneled in the spaces between the drape and the wall. The outline of a person who had died in the morning—a discontinuity between then and when you turned on the lamp. You knew someone had to do it. But you stood there in the dark for thirty minutes trying to fight it off. The smell of her had not yet turned—this would happen later, when the police-woman would ask the coroner for a face mask—and her color was played in a special way against the blue moonlight. Dirt hung suspended above her nose. There was a rattling noise. When the tungsten light came on it ruined everything. You were disconnected from every single second of your life, burrowed now in a new and somewhat smaller one.