Two blond women in a narrow walkway space outside of an office building. Beautiful late afternoon winter light. One is nude, sitting atop a stuffed gray goose that is being dragged around the space by the other. They say to me, "We make art in sad places." "We are making difficult art."
Standing next to an old and frail William Burroughs, we are reading a book together that looks like an oversized dictionary. I am holding his wrist as he moves his hand across the words on the page. He is wearing a suit and hat. A piece of text about dusty and decayed wooden window shutters. Maybe the first time I can remember looking at words and reading them in a dream.