The morning will be so real, so perfect, like a dream, the taste of a dream to be remembered by a dreamer woken in another dream. Will she really be there, and will it still be her? What kind of customs and performances will she follow? There will be as many versions of the memory as there are people to remember it. Why will she turn away, and why will she then look us straight in the eye? Ivy will climb up the columns, and atlases will be filled with numbered figures. Nascent shadows will spill across the terraces, and one’s eyes will grow accustomed to the symmetry. Where will the images spring up from? From which layer of consciousness will they emerge? Will anybody remember the riddle of the maze, and will anybody be able to finish the unfinished sentences? Perhaps it will be a Sunday in an odd year in an even century, and it will happen to be the day of the equinox. She will begin her sentences with ‘I’. We will list the names of co...