Madeleine, I dreamed of you last night.
Dreams have their special logic, at once palpably real and outside reality.
We were dancing, which we never did, Greek dancing, our arms a poised 'W' and fingers locked in the sertos chain, the dream so short we hadn't time to move. And gone, the dream as sudden and abrupt as one ring of a phone, and I, for the day, awake. Were I a romantic or a sentimentalist, I would wish that I had waked weeping, or that I wept for renewed grief, alone in my bed. But I don't wish. Public grief touches nothing, proves nothing, makes nothing, matters not at all.