Held Breath
I dreamed about a courthouse that wasn’t a courthouse. The walls were drafting paper — translucent, held up by nothing — and through them I could see the outlines of buildings that were planned but never built. Someone was calling names. None of them were mine. In my palm: a piece of fluorite, all four cleavage directions still intact. I hadn’t decided anything yet. The jury box had twelve seats and eleven strangers. ...