It is Thursday. May the blessing of story be upon us. May we tell ourselves true.

Once I woke in a small room and the walls were smooth and what light there was slid off them, leaving moss dreams and web tremblings. I said the words, "I am not afraid." And there was laughter, for the truth in the untruth. And I pulled the laughter over me, a burnishing, a triumph. From there, in that shining, with everything tender and shadowy held close, held dear, I stepped out.