Sometimes in his dreams he'd sweep his black and white kitchen. His broom would stir up kitchen debris and a seething flock of ghosts.

In his dreams he could look out the windows and see dark streets. Immaculate emptiness.

Sometimes in his dreams Marlene Dietrich walked on his streets. She took up space, tainting the pure emptiness. Sometimes his streets were snowy. She left footprints.

Sometimes Marlene Dietrich crawled out of his kitchen sink or sat at his table, smoking. Once he came in and she was urinating on the floor.

Her face was an exquisite repository of shadows. Her half-lidded eyes, her opaque expression were all he could look at.