The demon in the hallway mirror paints like Bosch, its view of our world is a magical thing. For example, I am half-nightmare, half-pomegranate in its many, blind eyes and my wallpaper radiates mirth. I bring it a banana, it paints the growing of grass; I bring it a picture of my late grandmother, it paints a laughing giraffe. I have asked it why it paints the world from mirrors but any response comes in Aramaic or Sumerian, or Hittite, and I have yet to master my native tongue.

I used to fish with my grandfather on the banks of the river, we would dip our hooks in honey and cast them in without bait because — according to him — fish are like us and have the sweetest of teeth.

I anoint myself with purest honey, cleansing the demons of daylight from my papery skin; ladle after ladle, I lather my body with nature's sweetest gold and pray, forming familiar words through my thickening lungs.