Tuesday, August 12, 1997
Dear Nova,
I’m back in my room at The Bardo, and right now, I have two choices. I can sit here and willingly suffocate in my own apparent lunacy, or I can write. For the third night in a row, I’ve had vivid dreams about you, each one more disturbing than the last. I feel some sort of momentum building, like a story coming together across time and space. I don’t understand. It scares me—tortures me to the point of sickness. It all seems so real, and yet I know they’re only dreams.
We stayed at Asher’s cabin until yesterday afternoon, following through with our plan to avoid the weekend traffic back to the city. The majority of our drive was smooth until the inevitable honking snapped us back into the fray as we neared the west side of Manhattan. Besides a brief m
