Her again. That delicious, delirious woman who has run so many times through the entrance to my mind, dressed, always, in her mudstained, bloodstained chiffon gown, rent by canine teeth to bare: thighs, buttocks, pubis, breasts. Dirt on the soles of her bare feet. Delightful eyes, willing me, through gashes in her tangled hair, to kill us both. Erotic, exhausted lips. That instant of transmigration, when she crosses the threshold into me and the white of her dress bleeds out and bleaches away the portal around her, the night behind her, when the crackling mulch of my awareness is erased by a fireball of correspondence, a polyphonic female scream. Her features — archetypal, ecstatically particular — always last to fade to white. Fade, then return transformed — reabsorbed, as the glare recedes, like dead leaves into mud. And now the darkness comes growling back, redoubled by her light; here come the dogs who chased her in, foul-smelling, bestial, made of me. Indifferent animals, pissing and skulking, gleam of headlights in their gummy eyes; a road, cars, blacked-in trees, some buildings; dogs defecating and waiting to leave; click of paws on tarmac; dogs going nowhere — nothing.