My family checks in to a mountaintop hotel where we've stayed before. On the drive there, my cousin points out the steep ascent from the sea that he has made countless times on his motorcycle. But up in the hills the laws of physics are different. The bellhop finds that his elevator key won't unlock the outer doors of the elevator on the ground floor and shuffles off to find another. After waiting half an hour we decide to take the bus into town for dinner. There in the rustic valley town I see a guitar repairman who has set up shop in a small cafeteria and ask him to adjust the neck of my guitar to get rid of a buzzing on the fourth string. To calibrate his electric screwdriver he chips away at a small portion of the upper lefthand corner of the mural behind him. He finds nothing wrong with the guitar. When we get back to the hotel I submit a review of an album that came out four years ago to a website I stopped writing for three years ago. Only after doing so do I find that my review has been up for over five years under someone else's name. In the comments section I notice two self-promoting banner photographs, one for San Francisco lo-fi folk duo Ramon and Jessica, and the other for my own radio debut on April Fools Day.

As I fall asleep in the morning light my roommate tucks me in. Soon I am out walking the streets and looking down at the humid pavement but I sense that there has been no transition. I must be dreaming. Suddenly I wake outside a musicology convention and walk into the service entrance while the plenary session is in full swing. I find a solicitous Southern couple feeding their two teenage children and two young musicologists at their dinner table: it is easy to sit down at my place unnoticed and catch up on eating while the conversation continues. I notice bags of potatoes and carrots stacked behind the sink and wooden trays full of fresh greens and herbs where the implements should be. I say that I am not a musicologist but that I have played music with one, and there is silence as the dishes are washed. Over dessert I overhear that the family has a German shepherd meaning that to understand this dream I must ask: "Am I my brother's keeper?"

We all pile into an old blue sedan where we are joined by my brother who does not know that we are about to experience the illusion of perpetual descent. The fifteen-year old son is driving. We start down a country highway at a gentle grade with woods on both sides. As the car gains momentum the road drops more steeply into what seems like a wooded valley below until it becomes clear that we are snaking our way down a very large mountain. The road twists suddenly left then right during which at no point does the son take his foot off the accelerator and at the moment the car should have flipped if we had tried to keep both wheels on the road my brother and I find ourselves standing on a breezy hilltop cul-de-sac watching the blue sedan hurtle out into the cool valley air and sail on over the treetops without a sound. We turn around to find a large white van idling with the Southern family inside. "Going home?" I ask the mother absently. "Yes indeed."

My father shepherds my brother through a traditional Talmudic education while I wash the dishes. Later, I am woken by squabbling between my boss and my brother.

On my moped again, we are winding through the hills up a narrow road. When we reach the ridge and try to peek over, dusk falls sharply. And I realize that an atrocity is unfolding in the valley below. If we could get down before dawn we could at least stage a defense, but in the dark we would simply plunge off the first of many sharp turns. I dismount, I pace, I curse. And then a friend walks over to a post on the shoulder and flicks a little switch. Daylight.

My office is a train. We are thundering through the endless hours of the predawn on a vast circular track, like atoms in a supercollider. I shuttle between two railway cars. In the first, I work with a clerk to attend to the needs of an eminent man in decline. This involves sharpening the razors, mixing up the shaving cream with a horsehair brush, and filling a large metal bowl with lukewarm water. In the other car, I do my best to study under a hot incandescent light and eventually fall asleep under a large quilt. I am woken by a young nurse.

A camp meeting at dusk. Our symmetrical rows of pine benches are set up to face a small clearing at the edge of a deep grove. Two bearded preachers are leading us in song, one on the left and one on the right. We sing. Quickly, two cleanshaven bandits storm in from the back, shouting threats and knocking over benches. Each sets up among us in lunge pose, his rifle cocked and aimed at a preacher. The congregation is paralyzed by terror, so we wait. After midnight, a holy sniper blows off the ankle of the rightmost bandit, breaking the symmetry with a loud pop. We know he will be shot again before he is tried, if he is tried. So we scurry home to our cabins, each one alone to wait for the dawn.

In the basement apartment of a hillside mansion. It is L-shaped and perfectly symmetrical, down to the views out the window and the furnishing details. I ask you over to the cul-de-sac just yards from our house. You ring but do not come.

At the elementary school reunion, I meet a blonde named India. Later, I am seduced by an alligator.

Flight. Cast as Fortinbras in a Norwegian production of Hamlet. With a dozen friends from junior high school, I enter stage left down a rickety wooden staircase into the Great Hall of Denmark for the final conquest. I have no idea what I am supposed to do, so I grab the first woman I see and pin her down, slowly dribbling saliva into her eyes. She looks back at me, defiant but subdued. As the play goes on, I learn that this woman was my cousin's fiancée, and that she had been playing Ophelia. In shame, we decide to flee in a sturdy Group Land Vehicle along the coast of Lapland. As we cling to the steep shoals of granite that wind along the sea, a black-and-yellow trawler passes us, cutting through the icy water at a speed about twice our own. As we follow a steep mountain pass inland, we see men hanging from the electrical wires along the road, insulated in rubbery black-and-yellow winged bodysuits which clearly do not admit of flight.

Asked to profile the Duchess for the official newspaper. Knowing that my words will be reviewed carefully by the Commissariat, I put off the assignment as long as possible. During the interview itself I misplace my legal yellow pad several times. In the end the profile is not published but I am imprisoned anyway.

Stakes. Out on a motor-driven surfboard without a wetsuit. I paddle away from my family to hop aboard a luxury houseboat maintained by the publisher of a prestigious magazine. His children play with me, and he seems to grow about twenty years younger as he laughs at my tentative jokes, sprouting a thick head of curly hair and sideburns. As I paddle away, a large wave almost overturns their houseboat. And then, in the distance, I see an enormous front of water, maybe fifty feet high. It takes a whole city's worth of amphibious vehicles and sailboats and trawlers and even a few lone swimmers and plunges them all into the depths. And then another, bigger wave topples a larger array of vehicles and homes, this one much closer to us. I can feel myself and everyone around me swelling with a kind of juvenile excitement, one that is heightened by the awareness that we have just seen from the outside something that, from the inside, meant a great loss of human life. We feel deranged, but sense that we cannot be sobered until we know if, or when, our own wave is coming.

Up. Up and up a rickety set of bleacher steps until I reach a platform where a man is waiting to shake my hand.

Cast as the Cowardly Lion in a Sondheim musical. Later, I gain the trust of a hotelkeeper through a series of fabricated confessions. Still he will not tell me his real name, and he will not give me good directions.

Slog. A friend has decided to use the history of intellectual property law as the basis for her next pulp romance. She wants me to look over the thick, thick manuscript for spelling mistakes before she sends it off the the copyright office. Meekly, I accept the task.

Gorgeous. I am stranded in a small cabin in the mountains with my mother's side of the family. My cousin suddenly goes down with a wound to the chest, and everyone but me resigns to losing her; I call 911 on my cell phone then decide to hike out for help. On my way I meet a beautiful stranger and forget my mission. We sneak into a high mountain bakery and she offers me a fresh bagel, stolen and still hot from the oven. I hesitate, then bite into it, muttering, "Gorgeous."

Powder. Turning to my boss with a document, I notice that his arm is covered with a white powder over which a thin layer of blood is spreading. "Are you bleeding?" I ask. "I bleed all the time," he says. "Give me that."

Arturo. Driving through a valley near the coast, I pass through large areas of light and shade as the road winds. I stop at the Centro Contra'arte, an underground cement compound that has been overtaken by vines and bushes. It appears that I am getting back to work from an extended lunch, as is the woman standing next to me. The freight elevator is broken so we have to tap on a window. We are admitted by a colleague who chides me for the length of my lunch hour. "Look at Arturo," he says, gesturing to a Mexican teenager in the corner who has been mouthing the words to whatever is blasting on his headphones. "At least he's been here."

Horseplay. I am playing hide and seek in a carpet-lined compound where all rooms are connected to other rooms by way of steep ladders. In a moment of carelessness I knock two playmates off their own ladders onto a small landing. One of them can't stop laughing about the fall. The other brushes herself off with a hesitant look. At first it seems that her face has been deeply scarred, with blood welling up from five parallel gashes that run the length of her cheek and jaw. As her look turns to one of disgust, I notice that the darkness under her skin is not blood. It is the surface of a mask fitted beneath her flesh and skin, a smooth red mask wrapped tightly around her skull.

Lunacy. In the attic of the house in which I was born, I peer up through a skylight to see the moon. After turning to tell my sister that the moon is full, I glance back to find it grown several times larger and superbly well-defined. The moon now seems to be churning according to its own laws of symmetry, with craters and mists and shadows each appearing, then swelling into fullness, then subsiding very quickly and with an astonishing degree of continuity. I look down and the ground begins to shake, then heave. Seeking shelter on the street, I stumble between falling telephone poles as the house collapses. Minutes then hours pass, and the earthquake does not subside, though it does not get stronger either. After staggering through the night I take refuge in someone's basement until the ground stops moving. He does not want to speak to me but does not ask me to leave. I glance through a high window to see the sun coming up.

Guilt. I am left alone in a room with a brother and sister, each no older than ten. I accidentally kill one of them and am forced to kill the other to maintain silence. No one else is aware of my crime and I wander against the crowds as a fugitive. A young man offers to help me flee, and while I do not trust him I decide to accept his offer. Two whores hear us arguing loudly in the backroom of a bar about what to do next, so we are forced to pull them into the fold too. Every time another stranger becomes aware of our growing band of outcasts, we are faced with a choice: kill or trust. For a long time our little society does nothing but grow. But many of us know that sooner or later we will have no choice but to start shrinking.