The reason I don’t know what to say when people ask “what are you writing” is that if I knew what I was writing I’d be home, writing, not talking to those people. I’d be home writing about the smell of the heat off radiators or the expression on horses faces or the color of the walls at Sears.

Dream: Someone who looks like Abe Vigoda opens a donut and book shop underneath the down ramp of a parking garage. The donuts are stale and waxy. They are the color of erasers. I grow competitive with him and force my adult children to stage an ouster. We get rid of the donuts, and the books, which amount to nothing more than travel guides and Daphne du Maurier paperbacks that are in bad shape. We put in a caged jaguarundi and a wrapping paper station for Christmas shoppers. But this is Venezuela. The shoppers could see a jaguarundi anywhere. We go out of business. We are trapped in the parking garage.

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