Last night I dreamed a man so old he was smooth like an infant. He was on a gurney in a turn of the century hospital. I was his nurse. He was waiting to die. He was waiting for his turn to die. There was another old man plugged to a machine all manner of tubes and hoses entering and exiting him and my patient was waiting for the other old man to be finished. He was calm and smiling. I kept pulling up my long white dress because tattoos were appearing on my legs. Lines of poetry were appearing on my thighs then a staff with notes wound its way around my calves. I was very excited to find the poetry and music. I could feel the tattoos slightly raised like newly born tattoos are.