Why I'm Wearing the Same Shirt As Yesterday

Last night straight out of ‘Traumnovelle’ – featuring yours truly as a scruffy and increasingly disheveled Doctor Fridolin. Chelsea warehouses filled with new art (splattered Francis Bacon wannabes, ironic-kitsch flower displays, giant gulping fish projected onto walls in small rooms), viewed by relentlessly circulating groups of angel-headed hipsters; warm sake; an underground club off a cobblestone street, empty except for two people dancing. An old dream becoming real. Waking up naked on a mattress in a blank blue room, early morning sun streaming through a skylight high overhead; washing my face in a strange bathroom filled with hemp soap, olive oil-derived shampoo, iron dragonflies; trying to find my bag in a loft filled with contorted and gaudily dressed mannequins, as if the ashen of Pompeii had died with their party gear on; and onto a Queens street, kids running past shrieking, school buses rumbling down the road.