She appeared. 

“Well well well,” she said with a sly smile. “Look who’s here.” 

I felt uncomfortable. “I’d prefer it if you referred to me as – you know what, I apologize. This feels quite different than an A.A. and will take some adjusting.”

She rolled her eyes, annoyed. “Shut the fuck up,” she said,  “and feel.”


Her hands touched my back, and she whispered into my left ear while licking (somehow) my right. And she spoke of tantalizing dreams – 

Is: I did not

I: What? 

Is: I did not speak to you of any dreams. That was the one in your right ear. 

I: The one in my right ear? How am I to take this? 

Is: However you’d like. 

I: …….

And she left in anger and frustration, the meeting gone awry (in her estimation)


I looked and saw an old man, a Native American, beating a drum with a bird on the front, and he pointed with his drum mallet at something up ahead. 

And a train was barreling towards me, straight at me and no time or room to move – the last thing I saw was dollar bills fluttering and floating down and all around. 




I return. 

I place the staff on the fire pit, its tip extending to the flames and touching the ground near my feet. 

It rests there in place. 

“He [is] Chief!” the old man calls out from afar, to all around.

I wait. 


The song, stuck in my head, plays again. It’s been here for days – weeks, even.

Why? Who are you? Why do you keep playing that song in my head? 

I lock onto it, and follow the song. I search for the sound and find its source. I follow the sound of the music down a stale, concrete hallway. A woman, playing live on a piano and singing. The music is muffled, coming from somewhere in the distance. Each step brings me closer; each step the volume raises just a hair. 

I walk forward down the hallway. I see doors all around me; on my left, and on my right. 

The music grows louder as I walk, and I catch the lyrics:

“If you forget my love,
I’ll try to remind you

I approach a set of revolving doors. The music is coming from here; I can hear a woman singing, and playing a piano. I push the doors open, and walk inside. 

I find myself in a small, historic (yet boutique) theater. It is dark. In front of me are empty seats. Towards the front, a small stage with a single spotflight. A woman, playing the piano, and singing. A single spotlight shines on her as she sings and plays. No one else is in the theater. 

She stops playing. And she turns towards me. 

She grins. And winks.

“Hey you,” she says. “Been expecting you.” 

Drowsiness overwhelms me, and I fall asleep. 


I snap awake, catching myself for having dozed off. I am unsure of how long I’d been out.

She was staring at me, and smiling. “Sleepy?”

“Yes…” I reply. “Very. You?”

She laughs, amusingly. “Not much of that here.” 

She looked at me, very intently, as if searching my eyes for something, and then she said, “Take time to remember why you love(d) the music. You’ll always find me available when (and if) you play.” And then she added, winking, “Thank Patrick for this one.” 

I stood there, taking it all in. 

“Got it, kiddo? Now, get goin.” 

She turned back to the piano and continued her playing. And in reverse, as if upon walking in but exactly opposite in direction and flow, I was swooped out of the room and through the swinging doors and back into the hallway.

And then it ended.

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