Last Saturday I dreamt of dying:

I photographed a group of water plants with iris leaves and flowers the colour of milkweed with a digital camera.

I was one of three young women driving bicycles dressed in long skirts. We sat on the ground. I had varnished toe nails. It was somehow daring.

There was a plank covered with a white sheet. My four small siblings had died on it, and their gaping mouths and shrivelled features could be seen through the sheet. I lay down on the plank to die. "How is it possible to forget this sound?" I thought. There was a rhythmic sound resembling hard wind or a distant truck, pulling - somehow greyish brown. I felt moisture drain from me, from toes upwards.

I was on all fours by the plank. I tried to convince my grandmother I was dead. I spoke with a laboured, wheezing voice, pulling air in and pushing it out: "I'm dead. But I can make this body move." She wouldn't believe me.