Steven is smoking a joint in the countryside.  "It's mostly sand," Larry had said before. "Bakersfield lizard weed." He's been here before and now he's bringing the whole family.

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I'm sitting on a couch at Eliot's in Chicago. I am loading shells from a paper bag into a bolt action Mosin Nagant. There is an older woman sitting near me working on some knitting. I take the weapon and aim it at a nearby window. The gun goes off but afterward I can't see any damage to the window or the house. I take aim again, this time at the metal awning near the edge of the roof. When I shoot the metal deforms in a very clean uniform way, like it's been industrially molded in the shape of a cylinder with a hole at the center. 

The woman is suddenly in my face saying that she can't believe I just did that. She's called the cops. I go into the other room and Eliot is standing at the sink. He is distracted, not making eye contact. I throw the bag of shells into an adjoining room and he says, "wait, I don't like the look of that."

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Riding in a school bus and I can see a nuclear weapon explode in the distance. The ball of fire expands until it engulfs us. I crouch down, want to make sure that the dust isn't coming in thru cracks in the windows.

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I'm looking down on a beach from a great height in the air and I notice that the waves have an beautiful iridescent sheen on them. I wish I knew how to surf. Then I'm swooping down thru the air and into the breakers. Skidding along the wet sand like a skim boarder a wave breaks over me and I get pushed under. I'm trying to body surf and I get the sense that somewhere there is a man who travels the world to surf. He is living exactly as he wants to even though it seems unconventional. I feel inspired.

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Instrumental hip hop beats.