Sometimes you have a dream that feels so real, it makes you think it was from a past life.  Or perhaps, makes you want to believe in past lives.

A life where you were a wealthy baroness, living mostly alone indoors in a home on an east coast beach.  Where outside is endless rocky shores.  Where inside the windows are all set a little too high to look out of.

Where your only friend is a silly happy duck that runs all over the dunes, changing in and out of clothes.

And hanging in rows to dry are the skins of many animals.

And you seldom have house guests.

And books are magic doors and are thrown into the ocean, lest they change you.

And when you peep through your eyeglass at the “neighbors” in their homes, you see that everyone has two faces.  One public and pleasant.  One private and pinched.