Wish I could remember that dream last night about driving down frozen roads, down a hill, riding the brakes, thinking to myself, “You shouldn’t ride the brakes,” thinking it was someone else in my head, telling me that.

Then I was wandering through a neighborhood of well-kept houses, through the back yards. Trying to get home, I guess. Like the swimmer in Cheever’s story. Ned. I looked it up. His name is Ned.

In the dream I was with Jackie. We were both trying to get home.

After five days a teenager in a Yankees shirt was dragged out of the rubble in Nepal. Meanwhile, we slept, fucked, ate Cheerios, rode the train, worked, in no particular order, and depending on the precise timing.