May 17th, 1821

The air is warm in my room this morning. It is like a nest for my dreams, keeping them alive a little longer before a maid opens the door and lets them die of reality.

The small trees in front of the window create moving shadows on the ceiling. I stare at them. My neck is damp. I do not move my body. It holds the memory of the dream I had. I want to retrieve it. I am careful to only move my eyes and my head very slightly, as if the rest of my body was still asleep, carrying traces of something, someone my awaken brain erased too fast.

My nightgown rolled up during my sleep and I pushed the cover down to the foot of the bed in the middle of the night. I look at my body, pondering how much it changed. I can not remember what having the body of a little girl was like, what I was seeing of it. This once curveless, hairless, pleasureless body. I do not remember experiencing the world in it. I do not remember not seizing the sensuous nature of my relationship to the world. And nature.

There was a man in my dream. My knees just told me so.

The dream is sinking in the ocean of my consciousness. My scattered memories of it do not float long enough for me to retrieve everything. But my eyes save the image of the bottom half of his face. My neck saves the feeling of his warm breath and soft lips. My stomach saves the touch of his hands.

I will treasure them.

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