Ghost Town Swan Song
In the dream, I was breathing feathers. Rushing up my nostrils to the back of my throat, a few drifting out slowly as I flared them against the softness, they smelled like fire and rain. And books; musical books - not music books, necessarily, but the kind of book that sat dormant in second-hand bookstores yet still coughed out strains of the music which had glued it together and brought it to life.
