Wednesday, April 09, 2008

4. Dream

I felt fond of the writer. That much passion for a cause without knowing what it was about. He must be a loyal friend.
At dinner, I asked the writer some questions about his books. But then I remembered a dream I had had just the night before.
In the dream, I was at a party with a friend who plays the drums. The party was on a ship. I was chatting to my friend, asking him about drumming. He gave me a wistful smile and shook his head. “At a party,” he said, “we don’t talk about our work.” Then he pointed to a corkboard where my name had been shifted to the right, as a penalty for talking about work.
Remembering the dream, I said to the writer: “I’m sorry to ask you about work.”
But he didn’t seem to mind.


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