I woke at the bottom of a well, the sun was the bucket and out of reach. The weather was as raw as a planet orbiting a dead sun and I kept the hot water circulating through tortoise shell veins in the house. I should have gone out but didn’t, preferring to paint in my deep ocean cave and pretending that lapping waves were just ancestral myths and that everything worthwhile never changes. A harvest mouse played the piano in the corner of the room that doesn’t exist in a house that has never been built. It was so small it could only depress one key at a time, by the time it had reached the highest C June had returned home wearing blue sky as a dress and having the head of an orange. We both spontaneously looked for objects hidden in the bottom drawers of our superimposed worlds.