I ask myself again so I don’t forget, where did you sleep last night? It’s hard to keep a firm handle on things these days.

I reach into the pocket of a worn out coat for any sign of evidence. Hrm, lint, something warm and sticky — put it out of your mind — an old dollar bill and a marble. Hold on, dammit, hold on tight. There has to be something.

I search my thoughts for anything that can give me a hint of what the fuck I’ve been doing. A sound, a smell… was I using last night? It was a big day. Was I a glorious trip dancer, wallowing through unkind streets ruled by secrecy?

I pull another image. Cop’s shooting wildly, screaming profanity as I run. It’s like something out of Dirty Harry. Another satellite is beaming things into my head; this can’t be real. Can anything be real, or is it all a fucked up charade? No, no no — fuck Nietzshe, not the time for that!

Would that I could walk in the rain and sing for absolution, letting the filth wash away. Then I’d know everything.

Now, where was I?