Perhaps if it could be remembered in another way, maybe the stories would come out cleaner. There was a time when light was all around you, when pages would swirl and twist in the wind, only to come to rest in a frustrating order. You were young when it happened. The fleeting remembrance of your first dream left you shaking in the dark. Nothing made sense, but nothing was out of the question. You could still be fascinated by questions that had answers, and the answers left you dazzled by what they did not reveal. Too young to laugh at the impossibilities of life, but young enough to remember when they were never there at all. You saw your first zebra when you were three, clumsily thumbing through a tattered zoobook; saw then your first glimpse of black on white. Since then, have you ever seen anything else?