It was already a few days back that I dreamed this: a doll made of flesh. It stood statuesquely in a clearing, out of doors. It was too big, not just for interiors to accommodate, but to really be a doll — a thing that would serve a child for play. I saw it like one does a tree that stands above the others, or an outcropping of rocks emerging lifeless from a verdant canopy. But anyway, it was made of meat and sewn together roughly in a pattern consistent with the adorable cuteness of a raggedy andy. It may in fact have been one. The features that I recall best are the eyes, large circles dominating a large circular head. The circumference of each haloed in stitching. It was not so much grotesque, as wrong, somehow retaining the lightness of and softness of a toy stuffed with cotton, even as its surface revealed an origin in skin and bone.