=monstrance=

Communication isn't entirely impossible, but
the chances of achieving it to any significant,
even satisfactory degree are much less than
is generally presumed. One must lower one's
expectations significantly to be content with
what is possible, which is something a world
away from communion.

This diner had no name. In the window--a sign--one word
twisted in neon: diner.

It's a kind of reprieve to enter someone else's
sleep. The dream can tell you that you're not
guilty after all. It's like a second chance. There's
some kind of valuable clue in there some place.

It was often best not to think too hard
about what was on the plate:
fried baby octopi

I've finally stopped insisting that I'm "remem-
bering" anything as it really was and now 
readily acknowledge that I'm always constructing
a story based on the real facts of the past--whatever
they might have been--for on the occasions I've
been able to confirm these "facts"--even ones I'd
have sworn on my life that I'd recalled exactly
and accurately--I've discovered instead that my
memories of them weren't accurate in many ess-
ential aspects. Rooms I'd entered, faces I'd seen
--they were, to my dismay, much different than whatever
I'd recalled. Even with the best and most honest
of intentions what I "remembered" was full of
inaccuracies and errors, inclusions and omissions.
Everything I recalled--without exception--was a 
story I'd convinced myself was true. The most I 
could say was that it was a story "inspired by
true events." A disclaimer they use in movies. What 
purpose do stories serve in our life? A pointless
question. Our lives are stories. And you can't
diminish the fact by smugly adding "our lives are
nothing but stories." 

It is 3:30 a.m. It is--so it seems to me--the only time that
 we ever truly exist.