George used to cut my hair. This was, as they say, years ago, much earlier in the dream. I woke up this morning at four thinking of him, remembering those warm summer mornings waiting outside the shop before it opened, that I might be his first haircut of the day. Quiet, he was. Quiet he remains. And quiet I shall be, in memory of farm mornings and previous lives. And if I were a tailor, I would hide all the seams. And you would be the thread, love.