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May 16, 2011

He took over for a homeless schizophrenic or maybe a drug addict, offering him a person to talk to. He uncovered that a teacher had suggested drugs to the man when he was a boy. He laid down on the floor of a store in San Francisco and was run over by a black woman's shopping cart. The guy took offense to seeing his friend run over so he battered the woman into a closet from which she had to be saved.

He walked with the crazy man but lost him down the future version of Market Street, much wider, much more optimistic, much hillier, with parallel other Market streets. Overlooking further streets, overlooking a real time a tangible time, a future that he could see, a blue and red wash of colors, and the bay.

A girl played Rasputina on her cello, and he felt good, like he could offer her money for that, but she was across the street. He thought of giving her his CD, but it was in his car.

Eventually, in a yellowed place, he found the crazy, accompanied by a lady. The lady watched as he beat the shit out of the crazy, possibly to impress her, but she couldn't be bothered to care. The crazy man's face looked at him from the edge, with the much narrower street (more of an alleyway, but maybe a large gutter) of a yellow, concrete, metal confinement behind him. A half grin, blood from his mouth, already a blacked eye, missing tooth or two, and was delivered a swift kick, knocking him down or backward.