Nautilus

In this dream, I don’t leave for months. Time is the same, a silvered, ever-present light that filters through our house, through the windows, through the glass doors. I trace the corridors of this house in a memory. Cherry-wood floors, white-washed walls, linen curtains that breathe in and out with the breeze. The house is rich in warmth, it cocoons and slumbers; at night we are rocked, as if by a mother.