My head expands as I contemplate cotton candy clouds above an elevated highway. Sarah, walking alongside me, speaks into her phone consoling a colleague, when — all of a sudden, daylight fading, phone convo still in progress — this same colleague pulls up on the road beside us and vents about a nightmare situation she’s dealing with at work. Eventually we land at a bar, where I down a Cigar City Maduro. “What value are you adding to my organization?” demands an irate CEO character. Let’s call him “Mr. Pinchpenny.” Miserable, wretched reality. Become instead like the Andy Kaufman self who doesn’t care what anything else is. Pure, solipsistic, free-associating Id. Subjectivity fractures into improvised self and other. Hands reach through bars, as prisoners recall the length of their remaining sentences relative to time served. Can’t we just visualize and manifest our way to freedom? Enter a fugue state, come out a person others want to be. One needn’t worry — the role will write itself. Manifestation of consciousness. Everything around one starts to speak. Out of this chorus steps a lead according to time’s decree. Turn reality on its head — rewrite the narratives by which we live. Rebound affect by and with others. Tell yourself, “Life is an illusion. All of us are under the dome.” If that’s the case, and this is all a story, then one might as well create an avatar and live one’s true self, the self of one’s dreams. See in Jim Carrey some sort of spiritual significance. Sing along to the tune of “End of the Line” by the Traveling Wilburys. A song of counsel. Applicable to all who seek it. See in this life a way forward. Repetition is what the universe is doing now, it’s not ready. Collecting data, assembling the composite for that divine spark fade-out at the end. Develop a theory, awaken belief. Share the word, pass the ghost.