This little book by Patti Smith is a dream.
I dreamed of being a painter, but I let the image slide into a vat of pigment and pastry-foam while I bounded from temple to junkyard in pursuit of the word. A solitary shepherdess gathering bits of wool plucked by the hand of the wind from the belly of a lamb. A noun. A nun. A red. O blue. Twittering threads caught in the thorns of an icy branch. Running in place, a ghost in vague expanse, I opened my arms to the sovereign trees and submitted to their pure, unholy embrace. Woolgathering p. 49