After 3 days of heat, no sleep, the sound of salt waves in his head, he fell into bed. He dreamt of a heart attack like the bursting of wine in his chest, sugared burgundy dripping from the ducts of his eyes and flooding the mouth. He woke, hoping to see red stains on his pillow, but all there was was dark, the streetlights gone, his clock blank. Out in the road someone had written DieHope in green house paint, the tracks of one car smearing away to the south. He went to the tablet of paper on the counter. He wrote, Dreamt of heart, power out, mobs in the street. There was a feeling of invincibility in his hands, the muscles ripe. The dark edges of the countertop were worlds to be broken, like eggs or bread.