最后所有的人都聚集在一起。-- -- -- -- -路易斯·博根当我感到疼痛醒来时，月光洒满了房间。我的胳膊瘫痪了，像个老锚一样撑在你的背上。你后来说，你是在做梦，因为你提前到了舞会。但在片刻的焦虑之后，你就没事了，因为这真的是一场路边大甩卖，你穿的鞋，或者不穿的鞋，都没关系。“帮帮我，”我说。我试着举起我的手臂。但它只是躺在那里，疼痛，无法自己站起来。即使在你问“这是什么?”怎么了?”它呆在那儿，充耳不闻，对任何恐惧或惊奇的表情都无动于衷。 We shouted at it, and grew afraid when it didn't answer. "It's gone to sleep," I said, and hearing those words knew how absurd this was. But I couldn't laugh. Somehow, between the two of us, we managed to raise it. This can't be my arm is what I kept thinking as we thumped it, squeezed it, and prodded it back to life. Shook it until that stinging went away. We said a few words to each other. I don't remember what. Whatever reassuring things people who love each other say to each other given the hour and such odd circumstance. I do remember you remarked how it was light enough in the room that you could see circles under my eyes. You said I needed more regular sleep, and I agreed. Each of us went to the bathroom, and climbed back into bed on our respective sides. Pulled the covers up. "Good night," you said, for the second time that night. And fell asleep. Maybe into that same dream, or else another. I lay until daybreak, holding both arms fast across my chest. Working my fingers now and then. While my thoughts kept circling around and around, but always going back where they'd started from. That one inescapable fact: even while we undertake this trip, there's another, far more bizarre, we still have to make. Anonymous submission.