Today, two eagles fought over a stick, then a third eagle came and broke them up. That’s three eagles, all baldies. Larry Davids, I call them, ’cause he’d hate that, or I think he would. We’ve not met.

Last night, I had a dream—and I know. There’s nothing so dull as other people’s dreams. I’ll be brief. I dreamt I was digging through my desk, searching for evidence of that time I enjoyed viral fame dressing up as Mollari from Babylon 5. That never happened, of course, but I’ve had that dream before, in various permutations. Once, I sang in a strip club, and my voice brought the johns to their knees. Another time, it was dinner parties—I cooked, or I did something…who cares? The particulars are meaningless. The feeling’s what matters, this sense of having mislaid something I can’t live without, not fame, not fortune, but something that came with them. It follows me into the waking world, that sense of loss. All day, I’m trying to remember…what have I left behind? Did I have something, once? Was I admired, even loved? Could I still be, somewhere?

Fucking dreams. I hate dreams. Scraps of nothing, worse than nothing…fucking dreams. It’s just, there’s something familiar about that one, like….

I don’t know. I won a piano competition once, just one out of dozens. My teacher made me enter, but I bombed every time. I’d sneeze or I’d fumble, and I always used sheet music. There was a ten percent penalty for that, straight off the top. But this one time, I played Lizst with such conviction, they said, such conviction I still took first place….

But, no. That wasn’t it. That didn’t feel anything like my dreams. There was no glow that day. No excitement. It happened in a church basement that smelt of old eggs. Nobody at school knew I won, and even I didn’t care. I despised competitions.

In my dreams, it’s more like, ah…there was somewhere I was happy, and I made people happy, and it feels like a memory. I wake up trying to remember. When did I feel that way? Did I ever?

Sod it. The eaglefight was better. There’s crows out there now, two dumpy ones eating fruit. It’s cute because they’re in a tree full of berries, and they could just help themselves, but they’re feeding each other. Filling each other’s beaks. When does that happen? Oh, crows.

Y’know, there’s one other dream that always feels like a memory: that one where I’ve killed someone and buried them in the garden….

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