More conversational cyanide

It was a dream. I was back in college, returning to my dorm. The dorm was a converted mansion, but a gigantic one – five stories, hundreds of rooms. I took the elevator, which was wood-paneled, and was comforted by the wood; it was like being in a private box in a forest.

I pulled my bag behind me through the long hall on the fifth floor and was greeted by dream-friends, all with a touch of reverence or polite sadness toward me, all except one, a blonde who hung out of her door, which was across from mine. She was ordinary, good-looking and sturdy. “So you’re back, huh?” she said. “Looks like it,” I said. “All right, well, get settled.” She closed her door behind her.

I went in my dorm room, which was large. The main room was wider than it was long, and around the corner was a shower. I took off my clothes and got in. There were clouds inside the shower. Like light is a wave made of particles, a stream of water is made up of potential droplets, I remember thinking. Maybe I could catch and measure the diameter, pressure, and duration of a jet of water and then piece it into drops in vials and hang them on a wall from tiny hooks.

I got out, dried off, put on fresh clothes, and went into the other room. There was a bare queen-size futon on the floor and a chair that looked like it had been carved out of a giant egg. I sat in the egg chair. It was extremely comfortable, supportive. I looked up at the ceiling – white popcorn. I felt calm and settled; I had money in my wallet and a good novel unread in my rolling bag. I breathed on my hand; my breath was fresh. All right, I thought to myself, so what am I going to do tonight?