Tuesday, February 19, 2013


I dreamed two nights ago of men working stone on a plain beneath the sun. They were covered in dust. Everything- their hands, their hair, their clothes- it was all white from working with the stones. Only their red-rimmed eyes and the dark holes of their gaping mouths broke up the monotony of the scene.

I watched a man fumble among the rocks; shoving them aside, picking them up, turning them, examining them, then dropping them again. He withdrew an egg from the heap of stone which, by some miracle, had come to be buried there. The egg broke in his hand and the yolk flowed yellow over his fingers.

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