The old black man in the dream is cold. I don’t really identify with this version of the self. I ask him what he wears, and he says that he wears “L,” and because I wear “M,” I cannot give him my shirt to keep warm. But he has done so much for us.

A row of us seated at the table are trying to eat our pastry and croissant in peace at the café where we belong, and no one can help him, though I want to, but he has grown too large and cold for my shirt. I will walk away with this feeling of not being able to cover him, my cold body, his, turned away, how I will never stop seeing, nor warning, nor tracking the dream between movement, collision, and life.