This morning I dreamt of a frozen goldfish I tried to rescue by holding it underwater in a metal sink crammed with pink plush and dirty dishes, but alas, the poor fish was scalded. It became goldfish soup: limp flesh, scales iridescent. Sliced green onions floated to the surface of the dishwater. I reached for the salt.

Then stringed cries of geese stirred me from deep boozy slumber. Light, a Monday-morning-must-get-tasks-done sorta light, filtered through gauze curtains that did not disguise at all the slender black bars that crisscrossed the window, beyond which Oakland blearily rumbled awake.

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