smooth

GRAVEL

4.  (Dream) A man leaps into the back seat of my taxicab when I'm stopped at Market and Hyde, and I'm as surprised as he is that there are already three other people in the taxi. "Can I go where you're going?" the guy asks, and my previous passengers are so chagrined they won't even talk to the fellow. All this is a little bit too much for me, so I pull over on the left halfway down the block on 8th Street, and that's fine by my first load of passengers and the new fellow as well, who evidently wasn't lying. He really did want to go where the other guys were going! Unfortunately, none of them want to pay me. What on earth did I do? (Fin) They say Robert Louis Stevenson, who wrote Treasure Island, Kidnapped, and The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde between 1880 and 1887, wrote from his dreams. I pretty much do that, too. It's the part of me that's a friend. Think about it. You're reading this, and these words are being assembled and brought to life in the private theater of your mind. And the part of you that dreams at night is sharing this experience as well. This is the one thing people who commit suicide don't begin to grasp. BIG NEURONS IN ONE PART OF THE MIND SUPPRESS MEMORIES IN ANOTHER PART. When they fucking kill themselves, they're not just killing themselves; they're murdering their best friend.