i have one of those weird dream apartments with the strange extra spaces – small, misshapen spaces not meant for living, but can be made into cozy littld cubbyholes. and i can’t find it. i can either go through the hotel to the apartments or go down the street, i’m riding a blue scooter like my son’s, but this one is mine. twice, i can’t find the apartment, despite spending 26 hours each time, getting lost, and then there’s the accident. both arms, both legs broken. i am in the hospital, i am not taking pain meds, but i have beer. i have surgery and they put pins in the broken bones, i have no casts, i can see the surgical scars and the bruising and swelling, and it hurts. i am not supposed to be walking around but i manage, a little, there are crimes that need covering up. i know i have to set a fire to burn the evidence, but i don’t want to add arson to the list of things i’ve done. so, you know, the guy who has that gavel that spits fire, and he just loves to bang it? he’s the building manager, i think. well, i put the evidence on his desk, coated with an accelerant, so when he bangs it, kaboom! evidence destroyed. but it hurts so much to walk. and i know i’ll get caught anyway, i’ll have the stuff on my hands, it got all over my hands. god it hurts to walk. but in a way i’m enjoying the broken bones.