I was an old man. Eighty-some years old. Strong, vigorous, shriveled, and bald as a plucked chicken. Beard of a God—one of those visions. There was a kindly old lady sitting beside me. She was brushing the longest, thickest, shiniest hair this side of the moon. She was also small-looking and wrinkled everywhere. Not that it mattered. She was absolutely radiant. We were both of us naked as the day they cut the cord and still in bed on a Sunday. The church bells were tolling in the distance and I was feeling grumpy. Something about work to do. I wouldn’t be the first to get out of bed. I lay there, staring at the ceiling through a haze of myopia. She eventually put her brush down and exited into the hall. I stood after her and shakily put on a pair of loose-fitting gray trousers, a large white shirt, and wool socks. The church bells continued. I walked into a narrow hallway that creaked in response to my every step. I heard the kettle come to a boil. The air was filled by an unseen presence, or perhaps a heavy concentration of steam and orange oil. The old lady, who was now in a long gray gown, walked past me and into the bathroom while I ventured to the front door. When I opened it I saw the front stoop of the house I presumably lived in and a vast ocean that stretched from one side of my poor sight to the other. I realized I forgot my glasses. There was a newspaper at my feet and beside it an old maid cat with long bobcat fur on both sides of its face. I picked up the paper and the cat plodded in beside me. It felt like it was time to sit, so I proceeded to the wooden table near the kitchen. The old lady appeared from the hallway and placed my glasses on the table. I tapped her on the ass when she turned away. She skipped a step. I smelled slightly burned toast. The church bells stopped and I said, “Good morning.”