When I stumbled through the resistance field I was looking for a place to sleep. I was holding my wounds together with my jacket. I was walking with a limp. When I slept I dreamt of tapioca pudding and chardonnay on a picnic table on a breezy hill. And you were there with your perspective on everything. You were adjusting your position. You were wearing your perfume. When I woke up I was in a prison cell, my wounds were mended with gauze and ointment-goo. (There was no site of you). There were guards in the prison-ways. There were light beams in the alleyway. I was in a prison cell with no cheese or chardonnay. I grabbed my jacket and dashed straight towards the resistance field. And with sparks and jolts I stumbled through.