I dreamed I was chanting Cold Mountain’s poems aloud to two men. They came and stood by my elbow, dressed in dark suits, and I began to falter and lose the rhythm. I complained, How can I hold the song with you breathing down my neck? even while my legs trembled with sudden fear. They may have smirked before taking the poems, hand-written on thick mulberry-paper, from my hands. I sensed danger, like the smell of smoke before the fire shows its vicious tongues, and twisted away from the place; but, as in all nightmares, I had already lost the way out.