Hello, sweet, and I was in your dreams last night. Walked there. Dressed in blue; it’s blue that allows access to the unconscious. Could not think of ways to delight you there, as I cannot here. Though I try. I often think of delighting you. Without knowing how. Delight is no fancy thing. Yet its motives and its charms are snakes and eels to me. So walked aimlessly in the dreamscape, sweet, beside you through the monstrous garden, coming towards you at each crosswalk in the intersection you don’t leave. Sat next to you in one of the Parisian cafes, behind you on the train to Leningrad, in the front seat of the runaway taxi. But hardly you notice because all your dreams are blue-tinted, and I can never, in a dream, speak unless first spoken to.