There are mountains rising from four-leaf clovers; that was the dream of seeing my beheading on a guillotine, and some ethereal proclamation of having been purified spoke in the soft steps of a tornado before full motion assault; it was the word shaheed that was used in the same aghast timbre as one of a woman prohibited from jihad. Someone caught my armpits, then declared themselves on a piece of paper. The only sensation that prevailed after was a jabbing ache. Ironic how a love for anywhere or anything begins from secrets, and how the start of every journey begins with dreams. I was told to follow the trail of each outbreak at midnights, the waking in cold sweat, and arm reaching outwards to grab a closing door's edge, before it slid into the vacuum meant to cradle its frame. Home is an elusive junction where an asylum awaits; it will encounter you civilly, offer you a hope as practical and documented as your time of birth; and then, it will offer you a dream - conditional, like the dreams of sleep, anything from anywhere, anyone from any way can walk over every astral limit in the universe and enter your space. The stars will break as all things nearing their end do. And the pull that prevents all things floating from falling will guide their descent into the eyes that sleep, composing as homes - a series of nights on the verge of a pinnacle - heightened to nowhere. First published in Red Wolf Journal