|I keep having this dream where I wake up wanting to know about Kosovo.
I go out on the street in my pyjamas and there's this, like, monsoon going
on. And I try to pick up my newspaper but the wind rolls it out of my
grasp and on down the street.
And I try to run after it but the wind is, like, blowing me back while
it blows the paper down the street.
And there's policemen in red raincoats coming down the street and I
understand that I should go inside.
They let the dog loose and it starts running toward me.
Except it's not really a dog, and it's really fast.
But I make it home and shut the door.
Except that the rain is coming through the roof, and all my books of
Latin American revolutionary poetry are ruined.
And there's a parrot on a rafter shrieking something about Russia.
Or maybe it was Rush Limbaugh.
And then I see that the rain has rotted everything paper, and all the
rotten books and newspapers are infected with these weird insects with
shells that are the same shade of pink as fiberglass insulation.
They're really horrible.
And nesting in my literature.
Then the fumigators show up and they are wearing green uniforms with
little orange hexagonal badges that say "NATO" on their shoulders.
I get a heavy, sick feeling that the cure may be worse than the disease.
Then I don't wake up.