"These are morning matters, pictures you dream as the final wave heaves you up on the sand to the bright light and drying air. You remember pressure, and a curved sleep you rested against, soft, like a scallop in its shell. But the air hardens your skin; you stand; you leave the lighted shore to explore some dim headland, and soon you're lost I'm the leafy interior, intent, remembering nothing."
Thank you, Ms. Dillard, for so putting into words the phenomenon of the inexplicable.
Thankfully, I do not have a cat with bloody paws that look like roses, but I am quite sure that the dried bunch of roses on my dresser look like a cat's bloody paws. If not that, "the memory remains of something powerful playing over me."
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