You drop your purse. An eyeball falls out. Then two, then nine. You hastily try to shove the eyeballs back but they are rolling away from you. They spill out of your bag; too many eyeballs to retrieve.
At some point in time your friends will eventually pull off their disguises. They are Dwayne Powers. All of them are Dwayne Powers.
Walking long distances makes you black out. You arrive at your destination with an empty stretch in your memory. How did you get there? What happened along the way? You never remember the answers.
You have a boyfriend but you’ve never seen or touched him. “He’s real. I’m sure he’s real,” you whisper to yourself. But the doubts never dissipate.
Sometimes you touch an innocuous-seeming object and you hear the distant sound of a chicken clucking. Your pockets are now filled with eggs.
You have impossibly tangible memories from the 1930s. A familiar voice echoes through your mind as you drift off to sleep. “Drop a nickel into the slot, please.” You dream in black and white.
Every morning you pick flowers until the fateful day when the bees attack.
“Please come to Massachusetts,” your friend pleads. You agree and book a flight. But the day never comes. “Soon,” you promise. “I’ll be there soon.” Months go by. Then a year. You still haven’t been to Massachusetts.
You eat a bowl of clam chowder. You spin a wheel and the prize is a whale watching tour. You eat more clam chowder and try to remember a time when you could smell something other than fish. After your third bowl of clam chowder, you spin the wheel again but it always lands on the whale watching tour. The fog rolls in. You order another bowl of clam chowder.
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