The dream turns to the kitchen, dilating and focusing a tableau of platters and vegetables. We look into the stomach for signs of life. Is there a fortune in memory, liquidated and reconstituted as a chimera of unfinished projects? It probably amounts to nothing more than the flowing of one affect into another, a disorienting shuffle of the furniture. Everything is raw on the surface; it can be cracked with a spoon. Behind my ear, I find your wilting nosegay. But in the kitchen of deferred expressions, we rummage for an instrument loud enough to wake us from the other side.