Home around 2 a.m. Stumble in. Hall light not working. Egg sandwich, usual hangover prophylactic, not available, as eggs in fridge expired in October. Eat granola bar in desperate measure to counteract dreaded hangover. Glasses off, read a paragraph plucked at random from three different New Yorker pieces. Am trying to approximate a Surrealist technique. But why do this now, at 2 in the morning?
Bed, room spinning. Fitful sleep. Keep waking up. Dream that doesn't feel like a dream in which parts of my right molar shatter. If I could stitch together a couple hours of sleep, I'd be fine, but doesn't seem to work. Finally succumb. Dream involves a long ride on a futuristic train to Florida, unsuccessful attempts to shop at a poorly designed grocery store, and watching video footage made by a terminally ill and entirely fictitious Australian TV personality, who has detonated elaborate explosives on his vast property. Someone says, "I'll see you in hangover city." Wha?
Wake up around 9. Coffee. Look at front section of Times. Feel at ease—not hungover. Then see photo of John and Yoko on the op-ed page, lose my bearings, and weep.