You know those recurring dreams that resurface every so often, unexplainably, like they’ve been encoded somewhere deep into your body? Mine is always the same, the one where I am running late. I’m sitting to put on my shoes, but my hands won’t cooperate. Laces tangle, the tongue folding inwards. The act itself stretches on unbearably, interminably, and when I finally rise, the world tilts. I try to move, but instead I falter, stumble, slow myself down with the very effort meant to propel me. I am not alone, though. The worst part is the periphery: I watch people I...