Starting in medias res with some idea of what came before. Travel of some kind, perhaps a tour. I'm trying to pass through a security check point behind a house in the country, close to where we flipped the Volvo. In spite of the long line I get to the front quickly and the official standing next to the scanner is dressed in an antiquated police uniform. He looks at me and, although it's still daytime, shines his flashlight in my face point blank and says, "oh, you're under arrest." He says this with a vague sense of surprise, as though he never expected to catch me. I get the idea that there was an all points bulletin. He starts to walk away and I follow him.

He leads me away to a holding cell in a building further down the dirt road. It feels like Nicasio. Inside I'm left with a guard and he explains to me that I am wanted for murder. He doesn't say who and for some reason I keep picturing Jim Sullivan though I have no recollection of killing him. As he speaks to me I lose all sense of the room we are in and I begin to experience a rapid fire series of images. I ask him if I can have a copy of the book that I've been reading and he says, "we're going to put you down in a hole and you'll get nothing. What makes you think you have the right to a book?" I get the impression that it will be a life sentence with no trial and the corresponding image is that of an old rusted out truck whose tires have sunk into the earth. Between the rubber and the dirt is a cold, dark interstitial space where they will keep me. A total suspension of human rights. Intense grief. I'm weeping profusely.

Someone else comes in from outside and my awareness returns to the room. The guard frantically gestures at something on the table in front of me. I look down and there is a pair of handcuffs but of an unfamiliar, incomprehensible design and I can tell he wants me to put them on. Not sure how to do that but apparently I was supposed to be wearing them the whole time. I'm unsure if this was lenience or negligence on his part. In spite of the awful feelings of oppression and helplessness there is never any overt force on the part of the police.

At first I think the new person is another cop but once I get a look at him I realize it's a prisoner who has come in voluntarily. He is a giant swaddled in baggy white cloth and looking at him makes me think of junkies, retardation, filth, sepsis, Lazarus. He sits down with us at the table and I can see that he is covered in scars where he has picked away his own skin and has large, white keratinized growths on the backs of his hands where he has bitten himself compulsively. His face doesn't have the alienated blankness that typifies autism. Rather there is something sensitive and sincere about his expression. Although he never speaks I can tell he is a cockney. We sit across from each other and I wait for him to do something, to attack someone. Either me or himself.

Woke up with an overwhelming sense of relief.