Remember that reoccurring dream since eighth grade? The one where either all your teeth fall out or you need to scream and you cannot? No matter how wide you open your mouth, how much air your lungs can hold. Nothing. Somehow you know you have something to say that’s important, critical. Maybe it might save the planet, or someone’s life—it’s taken on this superhero sheen, this need to be heard. Maybe you could save your own life, if you could just get the words to come out. But there’s nothing, except this terrifying desperation of anti-expression, a recession into something that resembles silence, but smaller. Eventually, you must arrest yourself, wake yourself up, jerk yourself from sleep. You just know. In this dream, it’s dawning on you: if you can’t speak, you will die.