My second guardian, who I call Cleopatra, appears as a beautiful Egyptian woman in ancient Egyptian finery and I often see her in dreams inside some fancy Egyptian bed chamber. She never talks but somehow I know what she’s feeling. We sit on this sort of futon-like bed and lay there, looking at each other and the ceiling. It’s peaceful but out of the corner of my eye I see people moving behind columns, they appear to be some kind of servants to Cleopatra. The chamber is always dead silent, the only noise is the crackling of the forever-burning torches stuck on the walls and just once, this crazy laugh that quietly sounded while Cleopatra and I lay in the bed.

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