I think I was leaving a party and was across the back lawn when someone threw me a pistol and told me to shoot at a target that appeared to be on a wagon. The person who threw the gun, who may have been someone I knew and admired, didn’t move and was too close to the target, and I didn’t say anything. I accidentally shot his eye out. I could not bear what I had done and could not look at him, at the accusations in the missing eye. Then I saw everything as though I were a third person, and I heard someone say, “They [the man I had shot and I] have always been passionate about one another.” I thought I saw us embracing.
I was driving an odd kind of vehicle up a stairway of rocks, and the more I tried to surmount the obstacles, the more fluid flowed from the wheels. I did not remember this happening when my father drove. Suddenly he was there to tell me I had taken the wrong route and was doing all the wrong things.
To get to my room, I had to climb what appeared to be an icy rock, or, as an alternative, rocks that were sheer and underneath which someone I know from college lay, possibly drunk and stoned. I did not know what to do, and then I tried to help him out from underneath so I wouldn’t hurt him. He laughed at me because he did not need my help and thought he would be fine where he was. There may have been someone else there. I struggled and struggled to climb up, but couldn’t. It felt like climbing a sheer chest of drawers. I could not face doing that every day. Maybe I cried.