In my dream I can't stop the car; it spins slowly, indefatigably out of control as I run across the lawns and gardens of the houses in ym old neighborhood by the ocean. I catch on that, in the darkness I can control the wheel if not the brakes, and steer toward the beach, the same beach, by geographical coincidence, where Sylvia Plath designed her next move. I spin the tires of the large car into the surf, and finally come to a halt. It is then I remember I am locked in. It is then I see the tide rising, hungry.

I still need to wake up.

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