Sleeping out of doors. A festival of some kind. As ususal I'm supposed to play but where is my gear? Everything is soiled, squalid and confusing. Heaped bedclothes in a clearing. Dusk or the kind of diffuse, snowy luminescence that Jake mentioned at Pinecrest last week. Open air structural coverings similar to Pacific Islanders' huts but modern in style.

Some girl makes a remarks to me about what nice fingers I have and then F walks up from behind. Oh God, I don't want to hear it from him again.

Then I find myself in my old room in the attic. A-frame, claustrophobic and full of familiar people but without any of the adolescent posters that I used to have up. It is very dim. I push to the back and when I get there something happens that upsets me. Not sure what. I turn around abruptly and try to leave. At the door to the stair is Andrew Jenkins with some other guys. He starts to joke with me and I don't take it well. I start to trash the place, a full-bore tantrum.

Outside now, crying hysterically. Everyone is watching me and it feels almost like a performance. A bearded psychiatric doctor in a white coat approaches with a clipboard and starts to pinch my face. Some kind of treatment.

I realize that the stairs to the attic room are gone and that it's door actually opens directly onto the front garden where I'm standing. Scott Smitherman comes out and and explains that I just tore Matt Buckelder's hat and that I need to go home and fix it on my sewing machine. I try to tell him that I don't have a sewing machine, much less do I know how to use one. I say I'll just buy a new hat for him but this is unsatisfactory. Back inside negotiating, I want to talk directly to Matt. I look down and there is Becky Smitherman curled up on my couch. She is young again but still wearing glasses and she looks beautiful.