[More of that book I’m writing.]

Or am I no one?

Mornings walking through the false dawn Sunday, downtown: amazing how the city can be this quiet. Almost like time moved on without me, and I am the omega man stranded forever in the past. The daydream is too much like the outside world, and I am confused of whether the art of my mind is telling me something about that world, or that the world tells me this other place, inside me, exists somewhere in the commons of all dreaming. I know I speak too much about the dream. It is perhaps the condition of my misspent youth in the last part of the twentieth century, when all around seemed as if it were of a great dream that had been lost. We had to come up with our own; the collective unconscious had nothing to offer us…. And now I realize I don’t know what store it is that I am peering through the window of. A momentary blank.