I had a dream that gave an idealised face between us and a cloche for the curlicue of our words — metaphor become caress and affect.

It was a liebestraum and I could describe her as a blue black haired obvious pixie but not manic. Mature like a walking tender savage museologist of 1930s Potts Point.  With words of worlds and whip and wit like a slips cricketer grasp catching every spinning fragment of mirroring making lakes with every strain and this was the interstitial between us, at least from my fixated point of view. And i sought to know if our dimension were returned.  A beautiful face of dream. Maybe i could obsess and watch out for her in palpable life