I’m in a bookstore. I bump into an into old man and his wife. They invite me up to their apartment. It’s a clean, quiet city, crowded with townhouse-like apartments. Nice color palette on the buildings: muted, colorful tones of maroon and light slate blue, mint Kelly green.
It’s very mystical. The winds blow the apartment building side to side.
There is a black stone slab hanging on the wall like a picture with gold inlay Buddha engraving. He draws a line across it: my path. He lets me know its nothing spectacular, just nice. I accept it; I’m ready to accept it.
He asks for my email address. He had trouble with it so I write it down for him. I have trouble with it. I go through many attempts: misspellings, the pen malfunctions, the pen is running out of ink.
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I’m back in high school. I’m still helping with field hockey. I look at my a papers: I’m still working to get my diploma even when I have my GED.
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I with John and the gang. They are leisurely discussing things.
I think of something – I have to write it down. Lots of scribbling when they talk.