Monday night August 1st, 1997 I had a bizarre dream. The imagery and dialog was so vivid and remained so intact in my memory that after awakening I remember feeling somewhat displaced in a somewhat disturbing yet very euphoric state of remembering. This dream's unrelenting visual narrative prompted me to seek pen and paper. The manuscript is written on 10 pages of of white lined paper in a spiral bound notebook. I can visualize these pages in my indecipherable handwriting as they exist somewhere collected in the debris of my life. This moment is more poignantly remembered as a time I spent in late summer with my lover, David Ford, in a small summer cabin in the backwoods of Thetford, Vermont. A few days later I learned William S Burroughs had died on the morning of August 2, 1997. I cannot explain why, but the idea that I would travel to Lawrence, Kansas upon notice of the death of WSB had been a priority on my mind for several years. Likewise, I cannot reveal the exact rational that kept me from fulfilling this quest, yet I suspect it was influenced by the practical inflammatory need of acquiring non-tangible capital. A secondary and most troubling concern was the manuscript that was written in haste days before. At the time, my compounded unease was not the statistical improbability of interpersonal knowledge, far from it. I had received some remnant, some last fluctuation of a holy enlightened mind's bicameral function. I have never uttered or expressed these words before, and i cannot recall the exact impetus today, compelling me to write this.