On the christening night in question, I was under the groggy belief that it was all a dream–nothing could be further from the atoning truth.
Half-asleep, and weighed down by My own lethargy, I somewhat awakened to the molestation of what felt like a female tongue glossing over My slumbering sack of bones.
Her empathic tongue initiated its route on the crown of My indifferent head, and proceeded to glide down and figure-eight My innocent orbitals. I felt the moisture from her stroke remain on My brow ridge and underside of My eye lids, and it remained there as I recoiled in sleep.
When I awakened in the morning, I was stricken with horror to find all the hair on My head absent–ALL of it.
I looked in the mirror, and to My dismay stood a befuddled, pink-hued salamander, with morning wood looking back at Me.
During that stretch of time, I had entered into yet another density of understanding that would nudge Me forward–to delve into the unconscious briny deep.