Dream in which there's a lost road through the plains of Missouri. It's nearly impossible to find. The dirt tracks start in the middle of a meadow and continue for almost a hundred miles.
They don't follow anything in particular. There is no river nearby. The grass grows tall in the middle, between parallel treads of dust, and there are houses on either side as you walk along. It's almost like a city that's been strung out in a straight line: everyone knows everyone else, and people are friendly if you stop to talk. Lilac bushes and lupines grow all along the way.
We stop to rest in an empty house. The back wall has been knocked out, so that the house opens onto the prairie. There is a body here right up on the edge of the prairie. Someone has draped a white sheet over it. Spots of blood have seeped through here and there.
Tonight, the sing-song tone of closing subway doors was distorted into the bleating sound of an accordion. It sounded real nice actually. Each time it happened it was arresting, because you've heard it by now so many times, and it never varies from that sterile "bing-bong" you expect out of everything from elevators to the deck of the star ship enterprise to the door ajar sound in your nice new car. This time though it was different. This time it wheezed its booze tears out onto the sad old plains of graffiti rubbish. Can you blame it? No, but you can certainly demand the restoration of uniformity: send that sad bastard back to the hangar.