there were doorknobs and doorbells where one touch had covered another beforehand. suitcases checked and standing side by side. one night, perhaps, t… - Wisława Szymborska

Every beginning, after all, is nothing but a sequel, and the book of events is always open in the middle.

Here I am, Cassandra.
And this is my city under ashes.
And these are my prophet's staff and ribbons.
And this is my head full of doubts.

So what can they tell us, the writers of dream books,
the scholars of oneiric signs and omens,
the doctors with couches for analyses — if anything fits,
it’s accidental,
and for one reason only,
that in our dreamings,
in their shadowings and gleamings,
in their multiplings, inconceivablings,
in their haphazardings and widescatterings
at times even a clear-cut meaning
may slip through.

My apologies to past loves for treating the latest as the first.