There was some kind of work event, every employee gathered in a sort of meeting house that was open along the side. I approached from the lawn outside, feeling alone and outcast. A basketball was bouncing around among the crowd, like a beach ball at a concert. It came my way. I bounced it off my fist and it flew into a trophy shelf on the opposite wall. The trophies—the agency's awards I guess— were all made of glass or crystal, and they shattered and fell to the floor. I cringed and clutched my head, trying to show remorse. Work turned into school. I was working on a project with M. B. Some kind of art project.
Wednesday, April 12, 2017
I was sitting with a group of people and Peter Grant, Led Zeppelin’s manager. There was a ping-pong table nearby and someone asked him if he wanted to play. He was a bit coy but sounded game. I asked him, “Who was the best ping-pong player in Led Zeppelin?” He answered straight away but it was unintelligible. I asked him again. I couldn’t understand him again, but pretended that I did.
Tuesday, April 11, 2017
M. R. and I got on an elevator going down and he gave me a chewable narcotic that he promised was strong. I popped it into my mouth and before the doors opened again I was high as hell, and told him so. I could feel the drug pulsing through my veins and the euphoria flooding my brain. He just nodded, like, see what I mean? We sat with a group of friends in the waiting room of some institution, maybe a hospital. A cop-like figure was asking us pointed questions, like what’s that in your mouth? We managed to evade him but I don’t know where we went from there.
I was at a restaurant with my dad at the top of a medieval tower by the sea.
I tried out for a job as the caretaker of a big sailing ship that ferried tourists around some islands.
I was watching TV with S. and a woman singer was fronting a band of heavyset, bald guys who looked exactly alike. “I wonder if they’re brothers,” I said. It was some kind of protest event, maybe anti-Trump.
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