A couple of nights ago I had a dream in which some people were singing a song. They were climbing a hill of crumbling red dirt. The main group, about four or five, went up first, singing the verse of the song. It was beautiful. A lone man followed, singing the chorus. All I could see of him were his boots on the crumbling dirt. The chorus was even more beautiful than the verse, with an unusual melody, and I thought, “I must remember this chorus.” I began to wake up then, and of course I didn’t remember the melody. Maybe I had it for a brief moment, but it slipped away. I keep paper and pencil by the bed for writing down thoughts, but I don’t yet know my intervals well enough to transcribe a melody. And for me melodies fade quickly. I did write down a line the man sang, climbing that hill: “I’m going home / to January haircut heaven.”