A lush one-way alley tram to the coast, where there three kinds of knee-high pets made from swarms of dots: terrier, horse, and giraffe. And lo, their oversized counterparts are loose too, including a 30-foot-tall abstract ostrich wrapped in a halo of black flies.

Part of my stage act is peeing in the corner, which raises a flurry of sand flies.

It's very complicated.

As we prepare for our journey, David shows me his only piece of luggage: a wide empty plastic case that folds out into a bed. I make a purple shake and there is just enough for my family. Later, on the back of an Army transport at night, we drive out onto an endless tarmac overgrown with grass.

Routine break-in and burglary with David Spade and Chris Farley. Later, I step on a pin.

Cleaning the tub.

"I gave you up before I gave myself the chance..."

To play along at the salon, I pull out my acoustic bass guitar. But someone has already started playing a somewhat throaty antique instrument. I apologize and go into the other room to pluck out "New York State of Mind".

Renovations at work. H is naked in a corner of the stairwell and asking for wheat. M says he's going to work three hours a week just to keep his health insurance. And Sarah says they're dismantling a 17th century cupola, already, and an improv nook, and the hall of graphite, just to build god knows what in its place. And that's just on the first floor.

After the dinner party a fight breaks out—or it might be an epidemic. I stay inside waiting for casualty reports. After, R doesn't want to talk and leaves angry, with the flash of a smile. On the bed I find L splayed out, pale and visibly in shock, with a severed penis between his legs on the bedspread. He says he is giving it to charity because what doctor would perform a reattachment on the Friday night before New Year's? I can hear his mother in the kitchen, starting up the phone tree.

Roy and Edna.

As I nod off on the train, I hear the intertwining strains of violin and trumpet which occasionally resolve into a full quartet. When I wake I realize my editor is sitting behind me. And the whole scene, including my first auditory dream, was itself just a dream.

The new office is furnished with a guest bed with flannel sheets.

My mother has been hired to assassinate Sigmund Freud at a convention of psychoanalysts. In mercy I empty the 11 caliber revolver of its rounds and, as I slide them into my desk drawer, see that they have turned to shiny quarters.

The yoga teacher explains that she is happy to take our questions in the hall after class, and that she is not forbidden to spend time with students as friends. But if she watches a film with us, for example, she will charge us for two hours of private instruction. Later my brother takes the wheel and guides our model car into the sea. We arrive at the quayside inn soaked and late. As we prepare for bed, I see two cats, one gray and one black, that keep jumping down to a concrete courtyard at least three floors below. They land on their feet.

Wake up with shin splints on a flint plinth and think, "I need a mint julep."

Milky and pure with a metal tinge.

Once we settle on Chinese delivery, I'm taking orders. Tobin wants beans, which I assume means mung.

Drive off a cliff again. Drive off a cliff again. Drive off a cliff again.

A thin man hands me a wad of bills. Wanting to reciprocate, I give him all the money in my back pocket. He takes back his own wad and walks away.