The most splendid dream: I was in Seattle, and snuck into "my old apartment" which was one in a dense block of them stacked up in sheaves just above the beach. I had a marvelous view from there of the water at night, and I snuck down to the beach "like I used to" and, over and over again, paddled my way out on a small raft and rode the tide in, and in, and in, feeling utterly content and not cold, alone on the beach at night. "This is only possible," I said to myself, "because Seattle is not an island, so it's not crowded." For a long time, I rode those still waves though the tide was disappearing, and eventually I lay in a dry concrete park and some skater kids came and circled around me.
As I walked along the street high above the water, I ran into my old friend Hawkeye. I was so thrilled to see him! We walked around some more until we found this thing which was a bus or boat or theatre and thought we'd sneak inside. We were surprised: it was packed with people at this hour! Every seat taken, and the aisle packed with people. We pushed through, and everyone was having a good time, packed in there at some small o'clock in the morning. It turned out they were all there for forgiveness, though in some non-religious way. Some community occassion where all these people got together and someone was going to help them feel better about themselves. They seemed to be doing alright; it was like the easiest-going, most friendly grown-up party you've ever been to, everything calm and easy in the middle of the night.