“A proximity to dreams.” Alex Graceland or someone. An online writing course he’d taken back in his 30s. Couldn’t remember a thing from it now, but the phrase had always stuck in his mind. He eased into his chair, shuffling slightly to find the grooves. “There is something about writing early morning, a kind of proximity to dreams, to the unconscious.” Yes, that was it, a rabbit hole, straight down into the unconscious. He leaned back, shut his eyes, tried to recall the dream. A child’s glove clutched in his hand, the fabric soft and limp. He’d wanted to return it. A sense of loss, heavy and at the same time empty. Eyes still shut, he sat with the feeling, tried to occupy it, tried to enter into its space. From the open window slipped a current of cool air which he now pulled in through his nose in a long breath and held it. He thought about his character, Marsha. What had she lost? He let out the breath and opened his eyes. Fingers hovered over the keyboard, he waited a moment for his mind to order the words and to enjoy the moment, the slipping into familiar routine. He started typing.