(no subject)
Dreaming of a secret compartment in my aunt's closet, which opens up to reveal a wooden staircase leading up into an attic: not dark, not dust and cobwebs and plumbing like it is in reality. Ascending to discover a room filled with my maternal relatives. Speaking to an uncle who had passed away less than a year ago. All the familiar traits: him with his shirt off, pot-belly like a shield, offering me food. "Help yourself," he said. And then I had in my hand a small plate of innards, black like it had been fermented in death and clouded by hungry, almost microscopic insects. I broke a bit of it off and put it in my mouth, remembering what it was like to taste something disgusting and wondering why the hell I did it if it was.