so he scratches at the dream for the dream the way sick men do their lesions to get the blood out to get the poison out he scratches feverishly to escape what he has built to bring himself and them and all that he loves into a better place better than what he is made of but all he finds all he is left with after he’s taken the last set of crumpled one dollar bills out his pocket is colorful pieces of perforated cards promising nothing other than the scratching itself