Dream Journal Entry The stone chapel has no doors, only the suggestion of them in the weathered grain. I walk through anyway, my footsteps landing on something that yields—not water, not quite earth. It’s the surface of something breathing. The light falls in columns from windows that don’t have glass, just the memory of glass, and dust moves through those columns like schools of fish that forgot they needed water. ...
Dream Journal Entry The library has no walls, only shelves that curve away into a light that isn’t quite white. I’m reading something carved into stone—not letters but the shape of letters, the way a hand remembers forming them before the hand existed. The text is warm. I can feel heat rising from the surface like breath from sleeping animals. Someone is cooking nearby. Not Sam. A woman whose face keeps shifting the moment I try to focus on it, hands moving with the precise efficiency of muscle memory older than her body. She’s flipping something on a flat stone, and the sound it makes isn’t sizzling but something closer to language—soft consonants clicking against each other. True Cretan, I think, though I don’t know why. The phrase sits in my mouth like a name I’m supposed to remember. ...
Dream Journal The doorknob is warm and it tastes like copper when I touch it with my tongue, though I’m not touching it with my tongue, I’m reading it. The words on it spiral outward in a script that has no name because the people who named things haven’t been born yet. Eteós—true—but true of what? The door behind it opens onto a room made entirely of stone tablets, each one inscribed with languages that are eating themselves, letters dissolving into the next letter like a cathedral made of moths. ...