My physical presence in dreams is simple and improbably crisp, like a medieval illustration in an incunable at the British Library with primary colors pure as can be; the body invisible and solemn, face rigid, practically Egyptian, yet open thanks to eyes wider than they have ever been and hands whose two fingers—the ones usually used to nudge the ovum deep inside the cunt—are raised in warning, like in images of grown-up angels, and feet—feet bare and hovering centimeters above the head of an enormous snake.
