Inside this book...

     Grandeur though, I mean, and some slumber. Because I was surrounded by newspapers. I had one in my hand. A boy had just won a spelling bee off hamahamhammatozqf, a word that didn't look like a word. He won a billion goldbars at the bee. 2 billion. I read the number and nodded off.

     I dreamt I was in my lodgings, surrounded by newspapers. The hands of the clock on the wall suggested it was 2:30 of the clock. I stood up and fell over. It was most peculiar.

     What they want, what they get, a lantern of light, a full sun kiss of sweetness, a lemon drop, a happy dog. Once in a while. Stop.

     Stacks of newspapers and clippings from around the globe. Writers sitting in chairs at coffee shops, at their homes, in offices. The sky rattling with a fury. A flurry of arms and legs sailing by the window. A person, me, trying to get by comfortably, quietly, without attracting much notice. Or at least not drawing the enemy to the door. Oh, not that idea. Another one.

     No one innocent. The forgiveness tree chopped down? The dream rises up, brighter, lighter, and free, with possibility and promise, charm and good sense, love and friendship, understanding and compassion, wonder and amazement, innocence and growth. Where the shadows lie, one sees. It isn't about fighting and killing, targeting and attacking, stealing and detonating.

     I thought that was the dream, but the direction changed again. Or no, the direction stopped. I ended up at the end of a line, with nowhere to take the next word.

     It was more than a fable that a long hovercraft ride resulted in my putting on two pounds.

     "At last, sir," said a small man at my elbow. He said, "I found you at last, and finally you've become so spooked and conquered that I managed to slip in without your knowledge. I'm not here to help you, not here to harm you. I'm only here because, at least in the present moment, I am the story. The essential yarn. What do you say? Size me up. Do you believe it?"

     I considered the little man. His wrinkles. His cracked and scuffed brown shoes. His tennis racket, which he bounced off my head a couple times. His serious air. The baggy trousers and spacious overshirt. His long, spiraling purple hat. The cat under his hat, which he revealed and then concealed in a single offhand fluid motion.