The nightmare is that there are two worlds. The nightmare is that there is only one world, this one.  Multitude of legs made out of straws; the shadow comes to tell me that I will lay an egg, and although I’m perfectly aware that it’s physically impossible for a human female to lay an egg, I find it to be utterly convincing, charismatic: I can’t talk back to it when it speaks, it won’t listen anyway. Social anxiety takes the best of me, I feel incapable of questioning the annunciation. Words like big pieces of furniture won’t come through the door of my mouth… why am I never loyal to my own plane of perception? We share our bodies in passion, but to my dismay, I can’t decisively identify the moment when it parts from my bedroom.

Alas, the next day I awake next to an egg. There is another world, but it is in this one. A quick visual scan precedes the first touch; the shell is a map or constellations of birthmarks: hard yet tender, still warm, enveloped tightly and already forming, composing the prelude of someone’s existence. Tending to it gives me a prospect of infinite joys, I would go as far as to say I feel superior to other mothers and their mushy mammalian babies… Now I just have to figure out how to keep it to myself.