His dream:
There was a small animal dying by the river, a carved wooden mink. Because it is wood, it swells. In the sun, it cracks. The mink has a high piercing wail, irritated and sick, a voice shredded by hands. Its left tusk had fallen, lay dangling by a single nerve. The back was cracked and showed the grain of its fabrication: pine. Perhaps it could be repieced with glue. I held it in my arms, the mink continued weeping, unconsolable, aged.
Soon, it is driftwood.