i had a dream about kant. i wish it had been wittgenstein, instead. (i think kant is tremendously important just, hard to live with, that's all.)

also. another that included a boy on the side of a bridge/highway, pointing his tinny rifle at the shrubs at night. the girl in the car, i was sitting in the back alone, she was screaming at me. i needed to get out--rachel handed me a five dollar bill and a quarter. when she came to a stop at the intersection by that bridge, i just opened the door and got out. she kept screaming and screaming... i thought i'd be able to get home. but so much fear. saw the boy with the little gun and he saw me too. it was late at night. a street light and a smoky indigo sky. shopping mall parking lot in the distance, something i always equate with danger. the stories.

and i run, and i run. but the well-lit pep boys down the road won't help. how do i get home?

something about fishcakes waiting, at home, too. from before i left. and fake, hard plastic glamour. you know--bad-smelling cheap gaudy pearl jewelry and dining ware, or something. old table linens yellow with age and poor quality. itches at the cuffs of starched white shirts.

(they tell me suits are comfortable, as long as they're well-tailored ie expensive.)