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[Delivered via bicycle courier and accompanied by a note: “I do seem to have a theme, don’t I?” —Ed.]

Drunken nights call back at once all other drunken nights. A chain of floating islands, linked by secret doors. Dream logic mixed like cocktails, metaphors.

Anyone could recur, like good or evil luck. (Is that my piano teacher in the hammock?) Historical figures: the astronomer with the golden nose, who died of holding it in. (My bladder tugging at my sleeve again.)

She could walk in. She might. If on my fifth drink at the stroke of midnight I make a wish upon a slice of lime and say her name, she’ll be here in no time.

Draped in Chantilly lace and singing torch songs—orchid on her shoulder, smoke in her voice, cigarette in her holder. Glimmer of recognition on her face.

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