A Slowly Unfolding Map

The tram moves slowly through a city that is half-known and half-foreign. It passes buildings of a shape and material that are somehow wrong, though they do not look damaged or incomplete. The feeling of having just spoken aloud comes suddenly when I reach into my pocket to find a small paper map folded into the shape of a bird.

I hold it in my hand. It is very fragile. The tram has slowed as we approach a large square with a fountain at its center. A single tree, reaching for the sky, is in the center of the square. Its branches are full of small bright lights. On their own they do not illuminate, but when one touches another they begin to sing, humming in unison like the strings of an instrument.

The sound rises as I place the map on the fountain. It is a map of the world. There is a small section that does not correspond to any place I know or have been, though it seems familiar. The room I left continues without me, but it is my hands that cannot hold onto the map now.

Write the dream now.