‘Coursing’

The last thing I could remember was fuzzy and didn't make much sense anyway. I was new to this place, to these people, to their way of wandering slowly at twilight with hands clasped behind backs. I could remember certain things but was unable to differentiate between memories of events that had happened and dreams of events that hadn't – do dreams happen? As I grew older, I had been increasingly unable to tell certain vivid dreams from vivid memories. Did you do that or did I dream it? I found myself asking from time to time. Because that would be a great thing to do.

Now I was swimming, back-flipping over and over, clouds above cycling into amber waters below, candies and death and old skeletal shape-shifting formulations, over and over. Now I was lying prone – a bed, a big bed in a small room, with dark forms huddled around me in a circle, between us a ring of candles flickering and snapping, an old woman throwing powder into the flames, a young girl with black eyes like mirrors, reflecting back the image of a dying man.