A drug I subscribe to has an occasional effect on my dreams. The latest concerns a conception of heaven as a vast cineplex where everyone has their own theatre, in which every thought we ever have (or had, as the case may be) runs in a continuous loop.

Last night's dream had me landing in a cineplex whose component theatres were organized not by the first letter of one's surname or by place of birth but by a system only my subconscious would have knowledge of. For example, why was Lee Atwater's theatre across from Georges Bataille's? And why was Jonbenet Ramsey's next to Louise Bourgeois's?

I toured a number of theatres last night, but the one that lured me was by someone I had never heard of, a woman by the name of Beryl Thigpen.

From what I could gather, Beryl was from the 19th century and lived a short life in a Dutch coastal town. Her favorite colour was yellow, and she wanted her hair to be yellow too. Her father, an English sailor, came and went when she was seven. Shortly after that, her life returned to the beginning