Little by little the desire came to me to invent my own myths
He dreamed of pain and a plant. We went to it. The plant was dying. The soil was moist and the leaves were limp. She screamed for us to leave and we did. But we returned. In the soil, beneath the plant, was a ball. The ball was a clump of hair: wiry and bound by blood. We pulled the hair apart. Something spiked my skin. Inside the hair were finger nails.