Dahlia dreams with her eyes wide open. Her favorite possession is her antique globe. When she stares long enough at it, she swears she can see the oceans move, volcanoes erupt, polar ice caps break apart and national boundaries disintegrate. She spins it around, her hand skimming the cool shellacked surface. When it stops spinning, she sees what country is under her pinky finger, and she lies back on her floor. She stares at the white ceiling and starts to put together the place in her head. She starts to feel the dry heat of the desert on pressing on her cheeks, the cool tropical breezing dancing with the hairs on her arms. She hears foreign tongues that sound like silk. She tastes the salt of the ocean, the clay of ancient cities, the steel of skyscrapers. She dreams up stories of lovers, kingdoms and wild animals. At night, wrapped in her sheets and eyes closed, she sees vivid colors of other worlds, and dances with day dreams.
