They say that people dream

of this same man, at the beginning of the month, in theories named God, or an amorphous figure whose face appear as one in separate minds, or a seeded concept from some big company wanting to sell something. I remember this painter who painted nothing else but white lace, draped at the end of a clothesline, rummaged out of a carton box, scarfing a lady and many, many children beneath her. She might have seen it, a glimpse of that one thread, a vision of one fine filament, woven and draped over all our heads, conjuring a million shapes that might as well have been an eye, a nose, a mouth.

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