After I became friends with the ex-KGB guys next door, I started having strange dreams.
— Nov. 12
Dreamt about the White House again. I am in a field of honey-tongued poppies. Somehow, I know I am their leader. I pick one and hold it to my lips. It is heavy, with a metal’s warmth. The poppies sway charmingly, whispering. The Oval Office grows out of a stamen.
— Nov. 13
I’m at the beach. My sister is here. We try to fly a kite, but have only a leatherback turtle on a string. “I’ll fix it,” she laughs, and runs into the ocean. I’m alone with the turtle. Now what. “Your mission is beginning, Agent Q,” says the turtle. Please, I say. I’m not that man. But my mouth is full of seashells. The seashells are salty. I hate the beach.
— Nov. 14
I trip over a root that’s really a briefcase full of tiny turtles. Their little eyes freak me out. Kill, they whisper. They mean the president. There are presidents in every tree. The gun in my hand burns white-hot. I put it to my own head. I pull the trigger, but realize I am also the president.
— Nov. 15
A store. The sign above the door reads: CLOTHES. Awesome. I walk inside, and it’s the Oval Office. No. I try to back out, but the doorknob is a hot snake. I begin to cry. More turtles appear. Their rough tongues lap my tears. Their shells feel like a family. I am wanted. I am needed. There is a gun in my pocket.
— Nov. 16
I’m at a library. I’ve been invited to the bowling alley part of the library. I squint at the pins, which are all the president. I wind up and throw a loop-de-loop. So frustrating. I bowl, I bowl. I bowl until I cannot. A perfect 300. No survivors.