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EXCERPT FROM A DREAM JOURNAL In the first dream, [REDACTED] sits at his drawing table. From the window there is a sunset, it is orange. Or it is purple. Or it isn’t at all. A phone rings and he doesn’t pick up. He puts an eraser to your skin and you wonder if it has always been that easy. “You’re beautiful, kid!” he says and it dawns on you that you’re dreaming because the iron mask (when did you put this on?) has slipped off, and you no longer remember what it was like to be so aware of your own disfigurement. In the second dream, you sit in his living room, he watches the news and fills out the crossword. You made a drawing, you find yourself telling him. He just watches the news, and you long for the drawing table, for him to see that you are a creator. Just like him. Here, you are not equals and you wonder why your drawings hate themselves. He continues to watch the news but the coffee mug at his table has been replaced with an ashtray, full of butts that look as burnt out as you will surely feel in the morning. You wonder what it is you want from him, aware that you won’t get it because he can’t (won’t?) give it to you. It is fine, because in the morning he won’t be there, and it will be just you, and when he says “I love you,” you may even say something other than “I wish you would stop,”.

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