I fell into a reverie earlier this evening and dreamt that parts of words - not roots, not even syllables, but arrangements of letters, two or three at a time, the two Ts in "letters," for example, had meanings of their own.

Dreamt I took a long, complicated car ride to Las Vegas. I was there with Sara, Jake and some friends of Jake’s, some of whom I knew, some who I didn’t, or at least didn’t remember. One was handicapped somehow – a paraplegic, maybe, confined to a wheelchair. Jake organized everyone around a conference room table and had us read an epic poem. The poem consisted of dictionary definitions of selected words. I soon grew tired of the exercise and said so, got up, and left to go to a casino. I felt a bit guilty about abruptly ending the reading so I tried to be good-humored about it. Jake surmised that because I had left, I must have figured out what the poem was about. He spoke knowingly to me about it. All the defined words, it turns out, were related, and they formed the substance of the poem – it was about sex.

I was in a weird city - maybe just a weird version of New York City - hanging out with Larry David. Actually, I was hanging out with someone else, at a bar, and Larry strode in. I was immediately hyperconscious of his presence - I wanted to interact with him. I wanted him to want to interact with me. More than anything, I wanted to make him laugh.

I was telling a friend some joke about how funny it was that he felt like having a drink. Because he was in a bar! Get it? Here you are, wanting a drink, wanting a beer. A little down in the mouth. And you're in a bar. Ha!

I was speaking a little too loudly. Hoping Larry David would notice. And then he did. He smiled that crooked smile he has when he's amused and walked over.

I launched into a shtick about the travails of men, of gently aging men such as ourselves. I said that when a man peers into the abyss, really confronts the truth, what he sees - what he must come to terms with - is the increasing unlikelihood that any woman will want to have sex with him. That's despair! That's the darkness of the soul!

Larry David and I howled with laughter.

I was with two other people and we knew we were going to fall asleep at the same time and dream of a pool of limpid, pale blue water. It was important that we all look at the water and enter the water.

​Some prankster art outfit was painting entire blocks of the city the same color. Red, for instance.

​Sara and I were considering moving to 42nd Street, but not near Times Square.

​I dreamt of a fancy dinner for accountants.

I was in high school. The standard dream in which exams are coming and you haven't studied. I was serene—I'd been able to pass tests with educated guesses in the past.

Then I had a band dream. We had a meeting about a rehearsal that hadn't gone well. CD said he didn't want to cover the Beatles' "Come Together," as I had suggested we do. I said OK, if any one of us doesn't want to play a given tune, that should be the end of it. "But was I a dick about it?" I wanted to know. "No," CW reassured.

For the better part of the day I could not remember my dream at all - nothing about it, not an image, not an apprehension. Then I got a flash - I had spoken indiscreetly, unflatteringly, about someone behind their back. They'd heard me, and I was mortified. But I do not know who it was.

I was reading an anthology of several comic strips. The first one was written in, and set in, 1970. The character was describing his car, a beater of the period that he had trouble with but that got forty miles per gallon as long as he didn't drive it too fast. I thought about all the times I'd driven my cars too fast, and not gotten good enough mileage. There were at least two other cartoonists featured in the book. One was a woman with a particularly good one. Can't remember much about it, though.

I was at a party back in Connecticut, in a big, cluttered house, that had been going on for some time, maybe days. Finch arrived at a certain point and we were trying to remember whether one of us had loaned the other twenty dollars the night before to buy drugs. We couldn't figure it out so we let it go. Then it was seven o'clock in the morning. Everyone else was asleep but me and Jesse. I was reading the paper, a little annoyed and bewildered that I was up so early. Jesse was negotiating something with an official person, possibly Treasury Secretary Hank Paulson. But this person soon became a woman.