There are no dreams

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say.

Karo, named for the sweet clear bronze elixir to be poured over your biscuits, considers this thoughtfully for a fraction of a second, then shuts her mouth. She closes her eyes for a long moment. No one can see your dreams either, girl. No one can know your thoughts. No one can feel with your hands. No one can see with your eyes, or hear with your ears, or speak with your voice. This is your kingdom, any agreement with outside forces mythical, at best. Pull yourself together.

She feels a sudden dropping sensation, the way the elevators in older skyscrapers like to play with your emotions, airplane turbulence style, and when she opens her eyes again, the stars have righted themselves. She is in the biosphere, but barely, high above Earth, seated in the lotus position. Elevator doors appear in front of her, and appropriately open with the floor at eye level. Muzak plays from tinny blown speakers, the elevator giving a little tilting rock on it's nonexistent cables as she clambers out.

Her hands on what feels like deep carpet, she hauls up to standing and finds herself looking around an enormous clear bubble. There are high windows in a ring around the upper edge, and a glass dome shows deep stars above. The walls reverberate with iridescent translucence, reflecting the windy clouds outside. A large improbable fireplace crackles happily on the far end. It is surrounded by deep sedan couches, velvet blue and piled with large pillows. She steps off of the persian rug and walks over, across a warm wooden floor,and lowers herself into the softness.

To her right there is a small glass coffee table, with gold curving legs. Upon the table is a large book, with a cover that appears to be swirling. She reaches out with both hands and is momentarily startled when her hands at first sink right through the whole volume. She pulls her hands back slightly, and stays perfectly still. Opening her hands very wide, she whispers 'please,' gently to herself, and feels the book solidify under her palms. She respectfully lifts it onto her lap and sits gazing at the colors melting into eachother in it's design.

Carefully, consideringly, she opens the cover onto a living window. It is old, wood framed, unpainted and lightly dusty, the caulking rough and obvious edging it's square glass panes. A ragged red and white curtain hangs from a length of twine that has been nailed to either side at the top. A slight incline covered in grass lifts away from the window, and a man stands on the horizon darkened to a silhouette , dawn rising behind him in all of it's pink and orange glory. He appears to be holding a large sized duffle sack over his left shoulder, and walking toward the house, he raises his right hand in greeting.

He is very tall with a shambling graceful walk. As he gets nearer, she realizes she can hear him singing in a deep melodious voice, a song about a mountain. He lays the bag down, lowering it very gently, motioning to her to lift the window, which had taken it's place in the material reality in front of her, the fireplace receded from the immediate recognizance of her focus.

The window lifts easily, and she now catches a deep breath of morning dew and sweet green, as the outside air flows in. "Miz Karo," he says with a secret smile, and his fingers to the brim of his hat, in greeting. He bends down to one knee and unties the knot of rope carefully that holds the rough sackcloth shut, his hands somehow beautiful in their long fingered dexterity. He loosens the tightly bound top of the sack gently, slowly. Karo stands, transfixed.