evening. i pace in front of a communal brownstone. As the huge
moon is almost as hot as the sun, i keep to the shadows, then go
a hallway with a bedroom at its end,
door open, two unmade beds, no people. In the livingroom, there
empty sofas. When i sit and look
auras of more and more people
appear, until i see that the sofas
were always almost full.
take a notebook from my bag
and begin to write. The young man sitting next to me asks what i'm
writing. i reply
that i just had a dream i don't
want to forget. He asks
if the dream was interesting.
i say that i won't know until i write it down. He seems perplexed.
is not fundamentalism," i say,
"It's a journey in which
the writer doesn't know what will be said next.