I had a dream in three parts last night.

The first part of it involved me going to visit a psychic. As I walked in the door, someone asked me my birthdate. I said , "February 5."

I heard an old woman say, "Of course. This is why you're here."

I then admitted that wasn't my birthday. "I don't know why I said that. My birthday is November 1." Someone directed my attention to a sign above my head that bore the words, "February 5."

I felt a little embarassed that I had made a mistake.

I pushed my way through white, billowy curtains, toward the psychic. I found her lying on a bed, in a robe. There were gauze strips covering her eyes. Her hair was thinning. Her color was faint.

She made me lean and kiss her before she would speak. A gummy substance that smelled of medicine covered her lips. My lips and hers stuck together briefly when I kissed her.

And then she whispered truths in my ear, things that I already knew but had never had confirmed. But don't be fooled - she wasn't peaceful and soothing. She was sarcastic and harsh and honest and dead fucking on. I knew that I would visit her again and again.

Later on the dream turned into a tale of my roommate and I rearranging books on a shelf. Thesaurus after thesauraus after thesaurus...we handed them off to each other.

Later on I visited the psychic again, and she told me that she used to know one of my co-workers in the seventies in New York.

"I picked him up when I was driving a cab. We used to drugs together. What a cokehead."

"I knew it!" I yelled.

She was much healthier then, even sitting up to greet me. Her hair seemed to be thicker, but she seemed uglier. She could see. She didn't make me kiss her that time.

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