they say, don’t write about dreams. they say, don’t write about the night terrors. the night terrors and fever dreams that wake me up clutching at the seams of my sheets, sweating and staring at people who are no longer there. I was having cocktails with a collection of men, but not men. Crows, crows that were men. The bodies of men with the heads of crows wearing fine three-piece suits, standing around drinking scotch and smoking cigars, looking a lot like my uncles before half of them died and when all of them still drank. I kept on coming in and out of rooms, looking for something, for someone. only all I found was that it was never where I left it. the constant rise and fall of curiosity and disappointment. When I woke up I went looking for meaning in these collection of crows. I read dream books, asked the woman on the corner, spoke to the crows on the line outside my window.