In my sleep last night I had a dream and in my dream last night I had a grey bathrobe. I was sitting on a plush couch in an extravagant living room, looking at a little brown bird inside an ornate cage. It was a small, plain thing, I remember, but it had a sort of quiet dignity about it. I caught a glimpse of its eyes, I remember, and was surprised to see that they were a vivid green. Hm, I thought to myself. I've never seen that before. I didn't know about that.

And then I thought to myself, this bird, this pretty little bird, it's mine. And I looked at its wings, its beautiful wings. The wings that belonged to the bird that belonged to me. So they were mine too.

I snapped my fingers. A lithe young girl dressed in a staunch white suit hurried into the cavernous room. Wordlessly, she held out to me a small pair of silver scissors and, with rubber-gloved hands, slowly picked the bird out of its cage and held it before me. I nodded at her, the briefest flick of my head, and as the bird stared me down with those still green eyes, I cut off its wings. I snipped them right through, cleanly and easily. With a bare, obedient look, the girl returned the bleeding bird to its cage. The creature was trembling and so were her hands.

I fastened the two pristine wings to the gold chain I wore around my neck. The girl gave me a small round mirror and I looked at myself and realized that the wings had looked better on the bird. Well, it was too late to do anything about that; it was okay.

I gave the girl another nod and she dipped her head in return and skittered away.

I looked at the bird, which had curled up against the cage's back wall, no more than a feeble, fetal blur, and I remembered again, it was mine.

"Sing for me," I whispered, and the bird did not sing.

I asked it to sing and it did not sing, and I asked it to sing and it did not sing, and I asked it to sing and it did not sing.

I snapped my fingers again but this time the girl did not come. I slid the gold cage open myself and scooped the bird up myself. I had on no gloves; it bled in my hands.

I stared into its eyes for a few minutes but couldn't find that spark I had been so eager to treasure before. The bird wasn't even shaking anymore.

And then the servant girl scuttled back in, her head held low, her long black hair hanging in her downcast eyes.

"To the kitchen," I told her, and she dutifully took the bird away. I sighed and went off to wash my hands.