stepping into a large music hall. it’s a church i walked through in 1999. the one with the cafe and garden right next to where the tour guide told us about the stinking dead under the floor. there are pianos on both sides of the red carpet. they are from all over the world. some of them are miniatures. all of them play at different points in the song with different tuning, sometimes all at once. some of them play without a person at them. it should sound discordant but it doesn’t. it’s beautiful. there is a small choir singing in a corner by the main grand piano and i think that the pianist is Woland. in the dream i think it’s a variation of Cohen’s Hallelujah but when I wake i know part of it was Pj Harvey’s Angeline. in any case, the lyrics were different. it’s so strange and we shouldn’t be in here while they rehearse. she grabs my arm and we run and collapse in laughter near the door. i tell her that if i had known she was so close, within walking distance, i would have visited sooner. she asks if i’ve ever had cheesesteaks at King’s in Headington where she used to work. i’m completely confused by this for some reason. i tell her i think so but feel it’s not true. we go to visit someone that i know will give us a room. we wear thick flannel nightgowns and go to bed early. when the owner comes in we pretend to be asleep. but before she leaves i ask her, “Ms. Harris, what time is breakfast?” she hesitates but says 9. i thank her and tell her she doesn’t have to make us anything. we get free breakfast at the hotel we already booked. she puts out a frozen pastry roll on the table and leaves. we giggle softly. i trace her face in the dark so i’ll know it even when i can’t see. when she’s asleep i get up and find my cats have torn open the pastry. it’s melting. jaspers has his foot through the wrapper twice somehow and is licking cinnamon and sugar. bandit is leaning against the roll, adding a layer of hair to it and a layer of glaze to herself.