When I woke I knew I was in a room of dream. I was small and humming with significance, like an orphan. Whether it was fall or spring I can’t remember, but I did own a single book, Lena on the Train, whose pages, long shut up in a drawer under the TV, felt more familiar than my own skin. There was no one else in the apartment and outside there had been a terrible fire. I spent my days opening and closing the drawer imagining it would produce a plain gold ring: even this did not make me feel invisible. Does to narrate mean to progress, to accrue revelation until it falls around you like snow? Because I learned nothing then. Now I am learning to narrate, albeit tangentially. I am learning that actually I would rather misunderstand tragedy. Childhood is simply life that has already happened, a prelude of coming motifs to be repeated in twice the time. I know this because when I see a shut-up face I turn towards it, expecting it too will bequeath me one ray of light. Nothing has changed: I believe in resonance, and I expect the world to give it to me.