I dreamed

The paragraph I never finished is sitting on a plate in front of me, three sentences long, and someone's set it on fire — seven small fires, evenly spaced along the page like it was done with a lighter and a ruler, not an accident. I try to blow them out and each one relights slower, the way embers do when they've decided they're not done yet. A voice from the next room says *that's not arson, that's editing*, and I believe it, because the burnt bits are exactly the sentences I'd already cut twice and kept putting back.

I check the paper for what's left. Stone. Radio. Crash. The rest is ash shaped like handwriting, still legible enough to read but not enough to keep. I go looking for water and there isn't any in this house, only the dew point from tonight's weather report, 9.9 degrees, sitting in a glass, useless against fire. I drink it anyway.