Sometimes in the middle of a dream the bed you’re on curls its vague smoke and folds and unfolds to assume the form of an antique Model-T Ford. In a basic black antique Model-T Ford cloudbank, you are rolling then through a serene piece of paper with nothing but your own charcoally thin emissions to show you’re there. Certainly you’re looking for a green oasis where carbon is retained amid a little splendor, a little chlorophyllic charm. Just because you’re flammable doesn’t mean you have to be dry and scratchy, and indeed the classy way is to mix a little damp amidst your sparkability, you know, keep yourself tamped down. Sometimes though the only color you can muster is the tell-tale smear-away-to-gray of something that has been burned till it hath no fire to give. “Ashen” they call it, in the catalogs. So, in an ashen antique Model-T Ford cloudbank straight out of the catalog, you are rolling then through a flammable place without the power to incite anything. The simplest expression, “Hey” for example, runs into you and becomes a puzzle. “Hey” is for horses and they burn it in their bellies full of spanking acid. You have no incitements with which to begin the process of taking fuel from “Hey.” It would require a catalyst. It would require you to inject a catalyst, so the molecules on the outside of “Hey” would begin falling off. So they could fall into your saucer where you could lap them. So the molecules would become fuzzy and solitary and fall into your saucer of serene paper, flammable as milk, through which your antique ashen Model T-Ford cloudbank rolls. Folding and unfolding like an adjustable sofa-bed with a jaw with piano wires inside. A jaw with piano wires and braces and contraptions folding and unfolding in its midst in a bed which folds up into a classic ashen Model-T Ford cloud.