Whatever this text is, it always descends from the sky on paper made of aluminum or zinc. The writing is slanted and wobbly, and I know this because all of the letters are written in script. With slanted loops and large curls, it seems like the script of mermen, though I can never make out the script clearly because of an aquatic film that slides over the eyes. As I try and read the text, I begin hearing low voices, and the ink feather pen rises by itself and starts notating the words, like a ghost writing at the blackboard. I always know what the voices are saying, but I cannot discern whether the voices are trying to dictate a story to me, or whether it is a poem. On a sudden, I have a lantern with me, and I’m rooting erotic garbage and finding only pigsnouts. I hear the voices, repeatedly, sing an echo of Rimbaud, “Other miserable workers will come…” This is the content of today’s dream, the garbage and silt of past-read books forming hard glass in the sand.