there's a statue of a naked man, sleepwalking, in the snow. he wants something, he's come all this way, his fingers are blue, reaching forward into something he can't see. maybe he wants to speak to you, but he can't see you, he is asleep. he can't hear you and doesn't want to, nobody sleepwalks towards a voice unless it's their own, pulled in frozen globules from the gut, from the seat of the unbreachable dream to the air and falling, twitching, little morsels inside out. has he come here to give you this or did someone place him here? is he walking away from his own burning feet? or that was a long time ago, and you have to get to class now. have to narrow to a whisper in the whispering crowd.