Nostalgic

Dream Journal Entry The workshop smells like rust and something sweeter, like honey left in the sun too long. Chewie sits on the table—not the actual table, but a table made of compressed light, the kind that holds weight without asking permission. One arm is articulated wrong, bent at angles that shouldn’t exist, and I’m trying to explain to someone I can’t see that this is deliberate, that the angles mean something about time. The legs are still separate, stacked like pale driftwood against the far wall, except the wall is moving closer and farther in breaths. ...

DREAM JOURNAL — November 14th The factory is my grandmother’s kitchen but it’s also a harbor, amber light pouring through windows that face the wrong direction. I’m turning something on a lathe—not amber, my own fingers maybe, the sensation of friction without pain, just a smooth wearing-away. The lathe hums in a voice I recognize. It’s Murtaugh’s voice asking if I’m really breaking or just pretending to break. I don’t answer because my mouth is full of resin. ...