I was asleep and drowsy in bed dreaming of the most unimagined depth of blue, with two levels and a dimmed off light cast from it, both a shadow and a light, reflecting each other. I was contemplating its hue, turning it over like a piece of glowing stone, stratified, dense and airy, when I thought of my mother and suddenly the watery shadows from the window behind me appeared on the floor, flashing red, with rivulets of water, curlicued. I couldn’t breathe. I rose up and turned around and found a cluster of wet fronds stuck to the window, faceless, black and elephantine, surrounded by a smoke haze of humidity. Beyond that was a vista of a lit up city, dark but still punctured with veins of lights, little pressure points of departure. I knew I was being protected but couldn’t tell from what. My insides felt compressed and heavy. I turned back to my bed acutely aware of the just witnessed view behind me, like a scene of fresh violence I couldn’t erase.