We couldn’t hear the speeches of the vigil for Aaron Bushnell above the downpour, couldn’t see the speakers past the sea of umbrellas. Occasionally a flashbang from the Times Square ads for beach bars and electronics. Fortunately, my books didn’t get wet.
In my dream I watched TV with my dad and my sister. On the screen a woman’s damaged face wreathed with wriggling worms, her eyes cloudy and caked with scum, and the mouth way, way too big, with scraggly teeth in all directions. “Uh oh,” said Dad.
How do I proceed with breakfast when I haven’t finished digesting dinner yet.
Second Slope 