In the Jay Street station I could smell bleach before I started climbing the stairs out. On the landing halfway there was an MTA employee with a bucket and a mop, cleaning something unspeakable. I walked as far around it as I could and emerged in the pitiless light of downtown Brooklyn, trash blowing down the street.

Google Maps told me to cut down a walkway and across a little urban park, a square hidden away from the streets. There were trees and benches and even a few people sitting. It seemed desolate. Lost and anonymous. A public space you’d find in some Second World city. I asked myself if I liked it or hated it. I liked it.

Just like every day I’m sitting here wondering what’s going to happen soon when I fall helplessly into the powerful and vivid psychedelic space of dreams. The only difference between it and dropping acid is that there’s no recovery time. And we’re so used to it. But what sadness or longing or ecstasy will I drift through tonight? Or maybe just a headachy nightmare about work.

When I saw the American cheese on the burger on TV I nodded involuntarily. I don’t know why. Not in affirmation, or agreement. Almost defensively.