Every evening, I jog on the track. I like the sound of the cinders crunching under my shoes, the breeze brushing my face, the way running seems to drive the voices from my mind. My shirt, soaked with sweat, I breathe in deeply the cool evening air as I turn onto a winding dirt road that burrows through a thick forest, I come to the gate of a white-pillared mansion and jog around the circular driveway, orbiting the statue of a woman with her mouth open and from which a jet of rusty red water spurts into a vase below. The vase is cracked, water seeping through. The grass around the driveway is tall, with scattered wildflowers, and I stop and listen to the wind blowing through the foliage.

Then I see a little girl come out through the front door. She breaks into a big smile and runs toward me with her arms outstretched. I reach out, grasp her hands, and swing her around in the air, my eyes brimming with tears, when I lose my grip and she flies free and drifts, weightless, into space. And soon she’s above the tree line, floating higher and higher, crying pitifully in a small, terrified voice. And I call out to her. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll get help. Everything will be all right,” as she drifts higher and higher, until she’s just a small speck crossing the moon.

The town appears first as a faint flush of color on the horizon, and soon I’m passing gas stations and trailer camps and seedy motels. The highway widens onto a main street jammed with traffic. I run past buildings lit by the flashing marquees of movie theaters and the glowing electric signs of bars and restaurants. … See More

Up ahead, I see a homeless man. He stands in the middle of the intersection wearing black shoes with orange laces, metal badges, paper stars, tin cans and plastic flowers pinned to his chest. He has a nightstick, a walkie-talkie, handcuffs, brooms, mops, horns, whistles, bells, and a slinky hanging from his belt. He’s directing traffic, creating bedlam.

I run up and ask him to help me find my little girl. He takes a common housefly, put it into a glass of water, and produces Stanford White. He tells me about the people of Guam, the hardest people in the world ever since they managed to crossbreed with teakwood. He rubs my head with a strong psychedelic that is osmosed directly through my skin, and causes me to be befuddled by the mire of my own wild and uncontrollable hallucinations.”

—Joe Frank