Last night I dreamt that I poured a glass of beer on my left foot – the nasty foot that broke last year. It was beer because it was the color of heavy brown that would later swim in my stomach in big laps. I poured it and watched as a line of big bubbles erupted from the knee all the way down to my ankle. The bubbles squeezed uncomfortably next to each other. Friends next to me burst it with something sharp and the bubbles heaved and extinguished but regrew with more force and vigour. Now they were a garden, they had life and they bloomed fiercely, with flora and fauna.
I had a tree growing out of my foot. I walked with it.
It is morning now and I am still walking with its memory. I don’t know which is worse.