I was at some strange event with my family, seated in an indoor coliseum. It seemed like a sort of religious revival. At one point the emcee walked through the stands with a microphone, getting spectators to join in on a song. I feared he’d put the mic to my mouth, and he did. “I don’t know the words to this song…” I sang.

Then there was a big party, and lots of my old high school classmates were there. Others too. Some current friends. Mike R. was there. It seemed to take place in multiple suburban homes, possibly where we grew up. It lasted all night, and then there was the awful prospect of cleaning up the mess.

Then it was a band dream. I was writing a song called “Weekend.” It went like this:

It’s the weekend

And my dad is suffering from Crohn’s disease

The chords were distinctive, suspended chords with pull-offs. In the dream the song was poignant and beautiful.