The text comes as I’ve got a pot of coffee brewing. Already good to go, just got to be poured. Sure, I’ll be right over, I say. And I’ll bring the dog, who I go and get part way through the first part of our chat. If you want some, I’ve definitely got enough for both of us. If you maybe have your own mug, that would probably be best. I might have another one lying around somewhere, but I brought my own. I don’t know if you take cream and sugar or anything, but I didn’t bring any. I could easily get some though. I don’t think Musette would notice my comings and goings. She is a good sleeper. I appreciate her talents in that regard.

No, sit, he says, motioning me to a couch.

That’s pretty cool, him having that here, or should I say them?

Stacy’s not here right now, if that’s what you’re getting at.

Yes, of course. And where is she, if I might ask?

Sitting a dog for a few days.

You’re telling me that she is away, gone at somebody’s house, watching their dog?

Yes. It’s something that we do sometimes. I did it a few weeks ago. My dog was a shit. Her dog is much better than mine was.

That’s crazy. So, you sleep in their houses? They have guest rooms or something?

Most of them do, otherwise we sleep in their bed or on the couch or whatever.

Wow.

Carlo is pretty excited, but he gets to lying down after a while, on the floor, breathing heavily. It is hot, and I forgot to bring his water bowl. I hope that he’s okay and not getting heat stroke.

I have noticed a strange sort of powerful thump in his chest recently. I don’t know if it is his heart beating extra hard. Maybe this is a palpitation. I seem to remember websites warning me about that being an issue with King Charles spaniels. I remember them saying that it can happen especially if you don’t brush their teeth well enough. I’ve been trying. It’s a hard thing to get yourself into the routine of. It seems so unnatural to me. I brush my teeth at least once a day. I don’t know why his teeth should be so much more durable than mine. It’s probably because of the diet that he eats. Plain, bland, meaty kibble. He’s loving lamb right now. Just like his daddy. The way I used to eat those gyros every day. I don’t think that I can bear to lose him again. I’ve been so mean to him recently. He’s been getting on my nerves. He’s got a lot of energy. There’s an amplification because of the move.

The weed is taking a while to make its appearance. We’re talking esoteric Christian conversations.

I’ve got a blind friend who can answer anything and everything with a bible verse, says my neighbor. He is very adept at interpreting dreams. I’ve begun to pick up on the skill, but I’m nowhere near his level. We don’t have a bible before us, but I could try my hand at one of yours.

I tell him about the dream with my dad and the trees on fire.

Apparently trees are important.

Was there fruit on them, my neighbor asks.

No.

Trees are closely related to the Earth. Something that God cursed. Outside of Adam. Perhaps a part of Adam. The mind. The room, thorny full of weeds. The dishes, as you like to say. The dirt and grime that collects on the stairs. The ceiling falling apart above you.

I try telling him about my execution dream, but it doesn’t elicit much of a response.

It’s fine, I say. My interpretation is enough. It would be difficult to make the dream any more motivational to me than it already is. What more is there to say when I’ve already had the delightful experience of being released from the virtually inescapable grasp of the television?

It is a powerful suck, says my neighbor. There is a verse somewhere mentioning a black mirror. I think that’s right… It might just be something I saw online. I’m not the expert on this. My friend, he has the gift. He sees the verses in his mind. He sees more than verses. He sees scenes. It’s all around him.

Like Joseph Smith, I say, translating the golden plates.

Yes, probably like that. Except I don’t know if I believe in The Book of Mormon. I believe in my friend though. I have seen him use his gift. I was a Mormon once.

You were a Mormon?

Yes. I had been converted by a girl. I thought that I was special. But I was not special to her. She did this sort of thing all the time.

They all do.

She’d brag about it in testimony meeting. All of the boys that she was in love with this month or the next. Loving their souls saved. They’re beautiful girls, your church has.

I know. I was reeled back in by one once. I threw my pipe in the trash for her. Renounced my ways. Now she is married to one of my old Decca teammates whom I went to nationals with. He’s a pilot. They probably have a lot of sex. I’ve masturbated to pictures of her on Facebook, particularly this one where she’s in a bathing suit, and I can see so many of the spots on her body. I’ve seen her in a bathing suit before, but it wasn’t a two piece like the one in the picture. It was when I was in Mexico. She was there as well, coincidentally, in the same resort hotel. It was the strangest thing. We’d taken a bus together to Cancun and laid in a cabana on a very white beach, talking about how much she wanted to have sex, not necessarily with me, but just in general, when she was married. She couldn’t wait to be married. I was not the right one for her. She’d never be able to get over the fact that I had smoked. She was a classically trained pianist, and her parents had adopted Asian children. It had to be my friend from Decca. He had a better career lined up.

They have a baby now. I stopped checking her Facebook page so often while she was pregnant. I’m back at it again though. She still looks good. I’ve got girls from school that I used to have crushes on who ever since getting married and having babies have lost all of their looks. I never check their Facebooks anymore. Not even the girl that I was obsessed with. Kylee. I think that’s how you spell it. The one who begrudgingly went to prom with me even though she wanted the good soccer player at our school to ask her whose best friend she is now married to and a parent with.

My neighbor asks me if I have a lighter.

I don’t have one with me, but I’m pretty sure that I can find one in my apartment. I’m praying that I didn’t give all of them away.

It’s okay if you don’t have one. We can just use matches.

Let me check. Using matches would really kill the moment for me.

We could also use my vaporizer.

Even worse. Let me look for that lighter.

Back in my apartment. It is going away, but Musette is sleeping soundly. New York is pushing us out. It’s different from Utah in this regard. Utah tries hard to hold onto you, New York does everything it can to get rid of you. Once you’ve turned your back on it, you’re through. It makes me want to cry, I’m so sad and so scared of the future that I’m walking into.  

I found it, I say, re-entering. My little yellow lighter. I thought that I’d given it to somebody on the street.

My neighbor hands me his bong.

You’ve probably got some crazy ones, he says.

Actually I have nothing. Just a little pipe. I have gotten rid of a lot because of all of the moves I’ve made. It’s too much of a risk. I don’t want to go to jail. I’ve been told by Ulric that I wouldn’t do well there. Is there a carb on this?

No. Just pull the bowl out.

I’ve never used one like this. There is a rubber stopper on it. It’s tough to pull out.

Watching my neighbor do it helps.

The weed enters my head, densing my soul. I’ve got to squint to get it out.

They’ve been showing the place off, I say. The broker. Raphael’s got him coming. He’s been doing it on Sundays from 7 to 7:30. It’s a real invasion of privacy. Our home is not our home anymore. It is transitioning into someone else’s.

That sucks. I hope that the next people are as cool as you guys. I’ve had some really bad neighbors. I’m terrified of my last ones. They were living breathing trolls. They existed only to make other people’s lives miserable. They blasted me on my art. Everytime I hear someone coming up the stairs, I worry that it’s them. I listen at the door to make sure.

I’ve had run ins with trolls, I say. They really had it out for me there for a while. I dealt with them the best I could, but it’s not like they’ve been destroyed. They’re still around, festering. But there are bigger bosses. How long have I been saying that? It’s true though. They latched onto Emily’s twitter today. They told her that one of her poems was crap. And then they told her that she has a flat face. It was my opportunity. The fight continues. A battle. Politics. Taking advantage of terrorism. I’m such a Hillary.

I said it doesn’t matter what they think. Your poem is being published in Spy Kid’s Review. I’m still waiting on my submission. They told me that I shouldn’t expect a response until the first week of April. I submitted two or three pieces to them. I’m a writer by the way. It’s what I do. I’m telling people that more now ever since Musette and I had that chat. It’s what she wants me to do. It’s good for me. Good for the world really. We could all use it.

The dog is asleep on the floor. Is your heart okay, buddy. I should really be going. I’m just blabbing on and on here. I’ve got to get this boy some water. I don’t know if he’s going to recover from this.

But he loves it here.

I know.

Wouldn’t it be great if we both had little doggy doors so that he could come and go as he pleases?

Wouldn’t it be great if we all had open doors, all over the world? We would be living the dolphin life, another dream of mine.

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