A beautiful woman asks me, what do the dead dream? I'm not sure if I have an answer.
They dream of life, I tell her. She says that's too vague. She really wants to know.
Fine, I say. They dream of fields and forests filled with fast and slow things. They
dream of ambulatory beings who're so complete they don't have shadows. They dream
of caverns, of canyons, of cracks. And then they dream of the megaliths that dictate
subconscious architectural problems, like a priest from a pulpit, holding prayers
written on paper. Then come the displaced shadows, shadows in the shape of men which
loom over foggy beams and holes of light. The dead dream of lots and lots of holes.
She wasn't satisfied. I told her, I really don't have many answers, I'm just a child.
I think the dead dream of death, of bombs and accidents that lead to deep sadness.
I think they dead dream of pumpkins and root vegetables, potatoes, yams, yucca. Maybe
they dream of plantains, of fruits with hidden seeds. They do not know they are dead
they just believe they are dreaming.
