I woke up on a strange couch. The dog was in my ear: a big black hairy mutt was sniffing my gel'd hair.

Woke up and sat on a slowly spinning hammock and watched the ocean come in on the beach while people talked distantly in the room. Ate a fine breakfast—an egg scramble with esoteric vegetables (jalapeños, sweet peppers, sharp onions; fine things)--in a warm kitchen, and sipped coffee from a proper drip coffee-maker. Overwatched (not overheard) a generic film entertainment, all "quirky charm" and multicultural issues. Went down to the beach and knocked a volleyball around, stood knee-deep in the cold roiled sea. Made sandcastles and knocked them down.

Rode buses slowly into town, past large parks and through projects and City Colleges. Stood in quiet crosswalks watching the traffic pass on a farther intersection. Put foodstuffs in a backpack and walked to another man's house. Fried quesadillas on his stove, listened to artful mocking speeches expressed in forgotten dialects of English, and stood for a picture holding an artificial mustache to my face. A man in rimless glasses spoke quietly of twelve years of sobriety—since his second DUI conviction at 19—and his marvel, understated, at sobriety's productivity.

Walked home in the just light of streetlamps, while a line worked its way into a soup kitchen and old men smoked on paltry stoops. A woman across the street caught my eye, and we both walked past each other, home I think.