I have never dreamed, I never dream. I can’t reach across a lake. I can’t hide behind a flower. I have been followed, cat-called, pushed. I have been mistaken for my friend, and my mother when she was young. I have a strange feeling, I wonder if you’re near. I don’t believe that if something comes later, it must be better. I rarely fantasize about warmer places. Numbers bring me comfort. I am not an object, substance, idea, or thought. Do people walk to escape walking. Does intimacy follow the illusion of intimacy. I have grown more cautious. I am not striving for subtlety. I don’t believe doors are objects. I don’t rely on mirror images. I will never look past all these fields in my mind.