Another persecution dream, there’s one every night. In this one I huddled in the old classrooms of my high school and whispered dissent. My name was called over the speaker to come to a certain room and wait to be interviewed. I saw your name on the list, guilty probably of daring to write the truth out in curved letters. I wanted to see you, but didn’t want you to come, to instead run away. To at least have a chance on the run. They’re going to interview us and then kill us, I’m sure of it. My grandmother’s friend in the resistance was taken and never seen again. There were rumours she’d been tortured to death, alternated between boiling and ice water but never spoke. They could do this to me, take my honest love of extremes and pervert it and I promise I’d never breath a word, explain the secret of how it feels. How certain things feel across the palm of my hand. How it is to love it all and not feel guilt.