My hair was some sort of nervous cross between steel wool and overwound guitar strings. As I clawed at it it occurred to me that that was where “high-strung” came from, the instrument so tense that as the frantic pop singer manically strummed it the G then the E and then three four and five strings snapped and confounded her quest for a melody no one had heard with a flavor like maple cuz see in my sleepiness somehow the glaze on a two-day-old doughnut seemed pertinent. She had tried to go high. Where do the strings go that snap and slash eyes? Do they exist? Is it true? Do singers lose face parts? I sped up my scratching. The metal hair spat violet sparks and I set a small fire and cackled like this—this was the real world, this was no dream. This was the real world, no dream.