I was playing guitar with Mick Jagger and Keith Richards. We sat in a small circle, showing each other song ideas. I told them I wanted that double-guitar sound from “Black and Blue,” songs like “Hand of Fate” and “Hot Stuff.” I played a descending bass line idea. It sounded trite until I decided to resolve it early. I played it again and Keith seemed pleased. I felt happy and relieved.

Michael Schumacher was pitching for the Yankees in an important playoff game. At one point he lost his cool and threw the ball out to left field. It followed the trajectory of a normal pitch, angling slightly down until it hit the wall at knee level. The breach of decorum caused a furor in the stadium but it was amazing how he threw the ball.

Later, a friend—maybe Sean?—pinch-hit a go-ahead home run. I stepped out of the stands and congratulated him at home plate with a chest bump, like a teammate. Later he rejoined the crowd and hung out on a patch of grass with our group, still in his pinstripe pants.

I slept till 6:19 pm. I came out of my room to find I was at my old apartment on 105th. SH was smoking cigarettes and I kept stubbing them out.

Something about a sweater someone lost at a bar. I offered to go back and get it. A car like a go-kart or a dune buggy, its rear wheels bogged down in the mud.

People were gathering for C.W.’s wedding. He’d been out fishing, and now was back. A.H. told me she had played the lottery every day, and won it for $30 million once. It seemed weird that she’d never told me.

I was playing soccer against an Englishman. Just me and him on the entire field, kicking the ball back and forth from goal to goal. It kept going in the woods.

The media had broken down as result of Trump’s election. Click-bait fake news had taken over and traditional news outlets were vilified and harassed into the margins. Anyone who stood up for the truth or for thoughtful debate could expect a targeted campaign of online vitriol and humiliation. I just remember somehow trying to navigate this new world.

Pete invited me into the record store. They were going out of business, he said, so I was free to take anything I wanted. The space was piled floor to ceiling with empty beer bottles, everything Pete and his coworkers had drunk over the years. I tried to calculate whether there were thousands of dollars worth of five-cent deposits or hundreds. I decided hundreds. Pete told me I could take anything from their inventory, and there was more downstairs. I went down there to find a vast storeroom. There were kitchen utensils and knick knacks like salt and pepper shakers. Glasses, plates. I think I dreamt this because we walked by the tag sale on Seventh Avenue on Sunday.

There was a luthier’s room with guitar parts strewn about it, a workbench for repairs, and guitars hung on the walls. I walked past it to a corner of the room with strange stringed instruments I’d never seen before. There were piles of a double-CD entitled “Titles of Every Country Song of All Time.” No music, just the titles. I supposed there had been so many country songs that it took two CDs to fit a list of them all. There were guitar picks. I couldn’t find the ones I use, Fender super heavies, so I took a box of Fender heavies. I wondered if I should text C. D. and ask him what picks he uses, and take some for him.

I’d gathered some other things, I can’t remember what. They were becoming cumbersome in my arms and I had to constantly shift around so I wouldn’t drop anything. Sara called and I told her to come down, take what she wanted. There was very little good music left, though. Just easy listening compilations, Christmas music. Titles like “Trumpet Classics.” I figured it was time to leave.