Three policemen climb over a fence. I am dead. I am on the ground. I am pretty in a white dress. We live between getting up when someone is at the door, and not getting up when someone is at the door. A bed of sleepy women move like cats. On the other side of the fog, you are naked in a vat. You are a memory of mine being erased. So this is my death, not yours. Someone is at the door.