Last night I dreamt that someone confessed her feelings for me—not that it mattered even in my dream, since she was married and had kids. And she kissed me, leaving me literally floored. It was too late, much too much too late, but to know that all my heartache, all my suffering had not been completely in vain was something of a comfort to me. Even though nothing could change, that bit of knowledge consoled me.

I also dreamt that there was a nuclear explosion in Atlanta. It was unclear to me what had happened. It may have been a dirty bomb planted by a terrorist. It may have been some weapons-grade plutonium that was being transported and that accidentally ended up going critical. Or it may have been something that Castro had saved up all these years since the missile crisis, and, expecting that he would be dead soon, he decided to use it.

Naturally this sparked all out panic and anarchy nationwide. I found myself fleeing L.A. in my first car—a 1980 Mercedes Benz 300D that had been in a frame-altering high speed T-bone collision and that had many, many parts failing. Strangely, my brother had access to a helicopter. We imagined that maybe Santa Barbara or even Lancaster would be far enough to survive a direct hit to the city.