in my house by a lake

[click image]

Suddenly four gangsters emerged from a closet and I was startled and afraid, but, mean as they were, I could see almost at once that they just wanted to get away. So I gave them my brand new machine gun that was in boxes in pieces, and the head thug and I took it out of the boxes to put together. Something vague about them crossing the lake in a row boat.

Then I was driving, very strategically driving, around in a city. San Francisco. Downhill mostly. Looking for something and only leveling off when I was near.

Then I wasn't asleep, but locked in a revery of turning whole blocks of words and code into something that came to you as an image that would tell you everything. And James Brown and Pavarotti singing to me from the grave. And marveling about how Russell Crowe had NOT blown my skirt up at all in Body of Lies, how he was perfect, stopped being Russell Crowe at all, for the first time ever. I didn't praise him for that. For an hour or so I was in this fuddle of movies and music and images, all signifying enlightenment and death. And not wanting anyone dead to be gone. They are not gone. I'm just not connected.