We cut its vines and now it is withering. We plucked the grapes, washed the grapes, and extracted their juices. I have always wanted to be the child of big animals with big feet that go stomping through the undergrowths, insensitive to the prickings and stabbings. When I drank the juice of the grapes, I felt like the child of the big animals that sometimes gnaw on their own flesh to get the bugs out of it. Then I felt strange, like I was on a big yellow slide, sliding along the humps on a burlap sack, going down and down, descending the side of the world without seeing another person like me, another descender. Then I slept, and the dreams were like reality–I was living in someone else’s house in Piedmont with a man–a man who one day came in with small leaves clinging to his chin, singing in falsetto–and I was, as they say, unemployed. And the leaves fell delicately from his song, one by one, at my feet, as if surrendering the battle. I wonder where this is leading, I said in the dream. The end.