I was stranded on a tiny island with an open stone structure, floors and walls about head-high. It was cracked and worn like ancient ruins. There were window openings along the walls with square wooden inserts, or maybe cardboard, that I was trying to adjust and fix, pulling them out, putting them back in. I began to wonder what I was doing there and how I was going to leave. The Manhattan skyline was visible not too far away. But there was no bridge, no boats, nothing.

I dreamt I was up all night. At a party, not getting especially drunk but lingering after hours. I played poker against a fool and took him for a hundred dollars.

K. C. was visiting. I went with him to the liquor store. He had expressed an interest in margaritas and I wanted to buy him something. His basket was already full of various bottles. “Do you have tequila?” I asked. He said no. “I’ll buy you a bottle of Cuervo,” I said. “Do you have margarita mix?” He showed me some off-brand he’d selected and I insisted on getting the better kind. In the check-out line we stood in front of the UConn men’s rugby team. It was the last day of school and there was a festive, reckless mood. We followed them upstairs to some kind of party, not sure if we were invited. It was boring. No booze. Then we were on campus. K. rode a bicycle around while playing a fiddle. I chased after him on foot. I had my phone out, wanting to get good pictures of him and anything else but I never quite could.