J. K. had met Miles Davis by chance and had recorded their conversation, and somehow I was able to step into it, to be present in it. Miles was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the railing, of a little elevated place, like a terrace, to the side of a wide hallway of what seemed like a high school or office building. At first I was only witnessing this, like a ghost, but then I became a participant and was able to talk to Miles. There was another young man there asking questions. Miles was unusually chatty—even “affable,” I said to J., a word you don’t associate with him. At one point he stepped away to go to the bathroom and as he moved through the crowd in the hallway I examined the faces of the people coming the other way. I expected them to be amazed at who was in their midst but none were. I made a remark to the others that this goes to show how ignorant people are. When Miles got back he was telling a story about a boy and a girl and something the boy did that impressed the girl and I said, “That kid’s gonna get some tonight.” I was hoping to get a laugh out of Miles, and also afraid he’d just think I was stupid. His reaction was a little cold, suggesting he disapproved of the innuendo or maybe just disapproved of it coming from me. Classic Miles. After a while we all got up and moved on. We came to the apartment door of our friends the B’s. Surely they’d like to have a drink with Miles Davis. I knocked on the door but C. B. answered it bleary-eyed, like they all were sleeping. Then we went to a music studio with instruments lying around. Miles picked up a fretless bass and played it a little, absentmindedly. There were people asleep next door so we had to be kind of quiet. I really wanted to start a jam with Miles so I made a beat by clapping and slapping my leg. It was simple but steady and I hoped it would earn his approval. For a long time he did nothing. There was a little microphone on a stand between us, raised just two or three feet off the ground. Finally he brought something small in his hand close to the mic. It made a percussive sound. It was a pair of tweezers that he was opening and closing to the beat. At some point J. K. admitted to me that this entire scene didn’t really happen like this in real life. It had been a briefer encounter. This was his fictionalization of it.

We were in LA at a park. A great Cuban band was playing right on the lawn. When they took a set break I wanted to tell P. C. or J. L., “What if I went up to the leader and said, ‘You guys are really terrible’”? I thought this was the funniest thing in the world.

I was on a high floor in a hotel, looking out to the sea below. Big drops of rain were falling, making ripples on the surface.

I came to work and saw that the wall was already filled with work for me to do. I went to my desk but fell down for some reason. I thought it might be comical to stay there, on my back, and tell my neighbor—actually someone from my previous job—I was taking a nap and could he bring me a blanket and a glass of water. He played along and soon returned with them. Then I got up to begin the day.

We drove up a winding road that unexpectedly became snowy. We were going a bit fast but I felt like I was in control. The road got narrower and eventually we could see we wouldn’t pass. It became a footpath leading into woods. We stood outside the car and contemplated it.

The last words someone shouted in my dream, the moment before the alarm went off: “Bring out your dead.”

A complicated trial was going on. I had been the victim of some chicanery in a foreign country. My dad was managing the process. I left work to meet with him, but I was anxious to get back in time for a meeting at 3.

Was listening to a demo cassette of someone’s songs with J. T. The first one was incredibly beautiful. Like Nick’s songs, but someone else.