Wisps Of Breath

When I was burning with a fever, so high it made my eyes burn and my mind turn lucid yet delirious, I saw a dream. Bundled on the floor of an old desert jeep, I slept half-mad with fever, and with the desert silence howling in my over-sensitive ears. I saw my mother, a woman who claimed to be my mother, selling me to the strains of bedouin music, that which her hips swayed away to. The haunting madness of the music and the bellowing retching out the skin of the desert. I forgot to pin a butterfly, that I had caught. The negotiations continued, in the midst of smoke, the enragingly lingering music, the intoxication, and the rancid belches that I was being pawned against.