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I find myself hiding in the dark again. You come into the room and ask to turn on a light and I say “okay.” But it mustn’t be the wrong light or it could be deadly. The difference in volumes between those two lights is like the difference between afterlives.  Choose the quieter light. Choose the quieter afterlife, I tell my dream-self, which I am following in the labyrinth inside the soft blanket where my face is buried. I am watching myself like the characters in the garden maze in The Shining.  Maybe no one came into the room and I said “okay” to myself, because spiritually I was already in the blanket watching my projected, miniature self negotiating the labyrinth. Linseed oil is dripping down a canvas in a room with late evening light. My dream-self has fractured cheekbones, but it is painless; it is only to be part of the landscape through that single window, the still-smoking bay.

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