I dreamt of two great spools of thread, one white, one black, the white one winding inward, the other outward, at first slow, then quick, faster and faster until you cannot see either spool and you think that the threads are the same, the same color. I dreamt this only a few days ago and already I am forgetting it, I am in the midst of forgetting this.

Last week dog blood spotted the corridors, adding carmine to the black and white specks of dried shit under the empty swallows' nests. A bull grazed in the field behind the school, with no fence between us and it. A dead butterfly lay trampled on the tiles in the ladies' toilet. Bats fed on eddying clouds of flies above the compost bins. Hares lollyed up Moneen. Dog violets, orchids, and cowslip sunned on Blackhead.

In themselves, unrelated to any other of these events or incidents or objects. But altogether they were signs. The outspooling of one kind of energy, the inspooling of another kind.

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