We see her on the street most evenings. She wanders around at night.
We recognize her by the cloud hovering above her hair; the cloud of black beetles with smoky lanterns reflected a thousand times in their wings. Dreambugs, buzzing around her head in a shimmering swarm, wrapped around her arms like a shawl, sliding off her shoulders, flirtatiously, in a black cascade. She scoops them up in her butterfly net; squeezes them in her small fists until the juice begins to flow in sticky amber drops.
This is where dreams come from.