I had recently moved into this house and now I'm getting divorced and moving out again. I open drawers and pull out posters and papers. A poster I made has a face I drew of an old bearded man, Freud. "Reviving Freud," it said. I see notes from college classes in PE, Health and Anatomy. I almost decide to keep them but decide not to. I'll never look at them again. I see some Library of Congress tapes in a closet. A woman friend says, "I've already read them, or I'd take them back for you." I'm a little annoyed with her. A true friend would do me the favor even if it didn't give her something at the same time. I start to roller skate through the empty rooms. I go toward the back of the house and into the kitchen. I look out a window and see a small, black, old sports car, the new tenant's car. Then I feel uneasy and realize I should go look in the closet. The "answers" may be there, long ago forgotten. I hesitate and fearfully go open a closet door in the bedroom. I look and see a telephone, an old-fashioned wooden wall phone. Then I open my eyes wider and it changes to a sideways view of my night table, like I'd really forced my eyes open as I slept.