19

Dr Freud: not needed to explain this dream.

An office: papers strewn about like rocks, and a silence like a still desert night. Faces flood to the door. Hands – that are free, that know not torture, know not slavery – welcome them in, usher them in, like a butler his master.

These hands, these hands.

The hum of the chatter sweeps in, like a sea over harbour sand. Each swollen swirl of mouth is a whirlpool – spreading sound like steam, clattering together like clowns, blind like brass instruments – blaring – blurting – and an orchestra of out-of-tune trombones marches through sleep and into the morning.

New job: needed.