Having just spilled coffee on my shoe I remember a dream: last night I dreamt that Tennessee Williams was comforting me, he was holding my hand and stroking it saying No, no, no. I had felt that I’d been called before these two men in suits because my sanity had been called into question, and that it was somehow crucial that I prove my soundness of mind to them, and for some reason the great playwright was there, too. He had a sadness about his eyes and he wore a full beard. I had just said the word Duck, thus breaking the terrible tension in the room. Instantly the two men whom I took to be chief doctors looked surprised as they turned to each other, and abruptly left the office. I could not maintain my composure any longer, I could not, and dissolved into tears. This is when Tennessee Williams took my hand, and I said, “The duck flies -- it bores a hole through the sorrowing in all of your work --, I had to show them that I was not crazy.” And he stroked my hand and said No, no, no . . . Oh no, no, no.
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