I try to leave the hotel room, but my coat is too heavy. I fall down in the corridor and can't get up. I take off the coat. When I look inside, there is a strangely overweight laptop in the inner pocket. Not my laptop. Not my coat.
I am a genius. You’ve held me hostage for years, because you need me to come up with a formula. I miss the deadline, so you take me temporarily from the room. When you put me back in, it has been stripped bare. All of my notes and scribblings are gone, leaving only white walls and a bed. I lose my mind.
We are vampires walking home from a party. You get stuck on a chain-link fence by the chain on your wallet. As we try to detach you, I see that it is not a wallet on the end of your chain. It is a block of cheese.
At the family reunion, all the cool cousins are sitting at a table in the far corner of the garden. I sit with my stepmother. She shows me how to crop pictures on her new cell phone.
Your house is made of white Adobe clay. It is empty, except for clusters of large piñata animals in the corners of every room.
