I dreamed gender, I dreamed a congeries of golden bubbles in an infinite dark. A sound like music that was not music. And called out of that, to music: distinct odor of freshly-sawn pine, some people I once knew; dried blood on an old book, almost a language, encased in glass. We sat down, and it was as if a banquet had been spread before us, only we listened first. For a time. Men and women. We were clothed, more or less appropriately. It was, as I recall, that kind of dream: one longs to revisit. But cannot, or not by choice. Outside the fields were shading into husks and there were those who wanted to come in. I remember this clearly: we were waiting for those who wanted to come in, who were young and had jobs, pets, children. Beyond the tall windows grain stood in the lengthening shadows. Somehow I knew this, and that there had been some sort of accident. We were, possibly, in danger. I did not approach the windows. It was twilight, and I was in my proper body again, and if there was not music, there would be. I waited, we all waited. I could not recall my name.