I dreamed of you again last night.
You were the daughter of a lighthouse keeper in the northern country. I was an artist, travelling on horseback, painting the things that I saw. I had left my home because the people said they no longer knew me: they were made strangely uncomfortable by the things whereof I spoke and the things which I would paint. I painted things as I saw them, and I saw them differently than others. They never liked to look at my paintings or drawings, and when I began making objects in wood people came into my studio and destroyed my work. So I left.
You were the daughter of a lighthouse keeper. When I try to remember your father or what we had talked about, his image dissolves before my grasp. I came to see you every day from the nearby village, where I stayed at an inn, until your father let me stay in a room at the base of the tower. I could hear him going up the iron steps to the light room, which I was not invited to see; and one night he never came down, but disappeared forever into the mist between the bellowing calls of the foghorn.
I heard you calling. I ran and ran but could not find you. Softer your voice called. Turning, I saw you beckon me closer. I moved to touch you.
Reaching, my hand went through your floating veils. You cried in horror to find that you had no flesh to encounter my caressing fingers. . . You faded beyond reach.
My mind was circumcised by a thousand unborn hands -- clawing at me from behind my vision as the lighthouse refused to shine or call out a sound to guide me through the darkness. . .
I awoke on the shore, my brain exposed, and I fear I shall die before daybreak spreads its peaceful moment like a blanket to envelop my fragile being. . .