Some sort of Grecian monster, a surreal nightmare of a thing, had chased the fleeing Kierk into the benthic dark of the CNS, its stamping hooves following close behind, hide and seek, the thing behind him closing in, and he knows that if it finds him it will dig out his intestines, turn him into spilling offal, so Kierk keeps running until he’s deep down in the basement. There he had flung open a door and found waiting for him a pale rubbery white wall, betraying a giantism that went back and back, revealing what was actually a great whale literally under the entire building, in fact holding up the entire structure that was resting on its monstrous bulk. Kierk, thinking beyond the curvature of his pillow now, the dream fading like an afterimage, wonders at the lack of realism. Not concerning the dream’s events, but in his own reaction—that if you are being chased by a monster the most vivid thought would be that monsters existed at all, that up until now you’ve had the ontology of the universe entirely wrong. That’s how he knew he hadn’t really been there, because in the dream world you’re dreaming up a self too, it’s not you in the dream at all. . .

The bustling dusk streets are so hot and humid Kierk feels his blood might curdle as he lugs his grocery bags and dodges through the crowd.

As much as Kierk might protest at the characterization, the grocery bags attest that he’s really more of an aesthete than an ascetic. In California he ate only cheap sandwiches, pizza; he picked through cans of vegetables using plastic forks, ate handfuls of spinach directly out of the bag. Not just because of his meager budget but also it seemed a metaphysical statement, that this was fuel, just fuel, for an engine that sputtered the more he tugged on the pull cord. Now his three heavy bags are filled with figs, lobster salad, truffle oil, arugula, several cow’s milk cheeses, a half pound of sea bass, extra virgin olive oil, garlic and fennel, some cooking wine, parsley and rosemary, polenta, garlic and herb crackers, salt, pepper, butter, a lemon. In another bag is a bottle of Riesling from Alsace.

At the steps of Union Square a small crowd has gathered around a street preacher standing on a wooden footstool, one hand raised in oratory. Most of the crowd appears to be accidental audience members. Kierk, passing through, stops to set down the bags and tie his shoe and wipe the sweat from his brow.