Beneath the floorboards of consciousness, I once found a lost sock, yellow and blue stripes, long washed away by time's brook... The grass sways above rivers unseen, as grains of sand in the hourglass, what hour is this? where did I place my key?

Fossils, the bones of dreams, etched in sedimentary silence. Do you remember the way the sky fell on Tuesday afternoons? Or how the tea kettle sang of far-off galaxies, while we pretended not to hear it in the mundane rush of chores?

There's a story about a mad waiter in Paris who never stopped serving invisible soup. Careful, it may spill on you... and wash away the sins you've yet to commit. I wonder if he had a cousin in the taxi that never leaves the station?