I slept twelve hours last night and had a dozen dreams. In one, I was wandering around downtown Seattle, which had turned into a university district, and I was trying to get home by bus, but they kept pulling out before I could reach them. I chased after one through the crowds of students and ended up on a side street I'd never seen before. A girl started to give me directions, pointing up a slanted alley that she said would take me back to Pine Street, but she ended up walking along with me part of the way. We wended through a huge bazaar, a series of semi-subterranean dens and rathskellers linked by dim tunnels, in which an array of goths and sexual fetishists lounged. It was fabulous and I kept staring at everything, wondering how I'd managed for years to miss this whole wild area of the city, so close to where I lived. We stopped a few times in shops and at cafe counters, and I struck up conversation with a tall bald man like a genie, dressed in a green velvet robe, who was keeping Spike as his love slave and bartender, chained behind a bar. The bar itself was vivid, with a scarred top and some kind of broken window high on the wall behind it, with stark whitish-grey light filtering down. Spike made me a latte.
I wish it were overcast today. I wish that every day.