in a waiting room a old man with eyes so hidden by his brows he was a moving shape, he gave me paper that said 

There is a hill I hear 
unknown to me where it lays 

Twenty five tents orange 
four tents blue 

There’s a hill that changes depth deeper each moment less threatening by each inch added
As below lies wheat crops and feather down

A tree house made of charcoal and a swing surrounded by nettles
And they all run as we used to 

A child crouches by the water buckets stagnant and coated in flies washing his hands seventy eight times 

In the body of a wise old woman, you ask 

Are you there yet ?

are you finished at last ?

and I woke up so confused and thinking maybe I should  be on more meds