P a r s i f a l

So, stoned and more than an hour late to work, Lancelot Flows into the cramped train viewing the world through a Purple Haze. Faces are Dour or politely Kush-ioned in books. The train’s winds whine slow thru Myrtle Willoughby.

One Sunday evening in January he dreamt of an office building like the one across the way through the hard driving rain. He was Peter MacNicol in Ally McBeal. Tears Ran Down His Face As He Gripped The Steering Wheel And Exclaimed, That Was My Last Girlfriend.

He has broken free of the dream. The building is real but the light has softened and he is too old and too tired to be a character in a fresh-faced courtroom drama.

Now steam is gushing out of dull rooftop boxes, mixing gently against quick brown sun clouds, a burnished and dirty vista. The dream is compromised by the quick stark weirdness of the moment.

I push out of the crisp dead air of the penthouse office suite into the sweaty metallic hum of the pewtercarved elevator. Outside is the coldness of space.

L a n c e l o t . . .