The writer traverses the dream, her fingers sleepwalking over the keyboard. Seeking momentary relief, the feeling of completion. Even as the hand lifts to write the first line, there is no clear idea of what will emerge.
In the beginning there is nothing. Breath stirring a blank sea. Vague shapes beneath the surface. An old blurred bone, a chiseled stone, clues in the midden.
There’s that deep feeling, the yearning, slow burn. Something incomplete or missing insists, lodged like a wedge. Something tugs, aligns, sets you facing a specific direction − discovers a woman lying in a road, another standing beside her dead mother, a man who finds salvation in a bottle, one who feels invincible, risking everything, and one who dies thirty years after an attempt on his life.