reading our strangers in a hot bath noting the waves my breathing makes wondering while my face sweats patting the drops with a washcloth before they fall on the page if the submerged parts sweat as well or do the submerged pores open and drink and make the water sweat. meanwhile in the story i'm reading the subject wonders if the people in her dreams wonder where she went when the dream abruptly ends and i wonder if the uncanny dreams she relates are invented, her being a writer, and then i think what difference does it make we're all the writers of our dreams, only some of us are lucky and recall them and occasionally even publish the most uncanny ones, and then my note falls off the sink into the cat box.