I have written a book. I am looking at it and notice that I've tried to sketch a few illustrations. As I turn the pages, I notice that the illustrations get better and better with more detail. I think, "I'd like to show this to Derek, so he'd see I tried to do art work too." Then, I see the book is larger and the illustrations are in color and they are very detailed. I wonder if I had done these; probably not, since they are so good. I can't do this well. The first pictures were pencil sketches of hands, somewhat crooked fingers, like mine many years ago. I think, "That's interesting they are like mine," and then I think, "But, of course, they are. People create art like themselves." One picture is over two pages, a skeleton in the sand on a desert island. The next page is his skull. Then there are missiles with smaller missiles coming out of them, four pictures in a vertical row showing the smaller missile coming out. "Looks phallic," I think. I examine the picture closely, thinking, "Naw, there's no way I could have done this one. Maybe I did a collage, but it is obviously not a collage." Now I close the book and look over to Howard, who is in a narrow bed. Under the bed are piles of my clothes. I see a huge ant who picked up a crumb or a maggot and is lugging it over to the clothes to eat it. I am fascinated. I look at the bed and think, "If you put a box over it, a person could set it up so you'd have everything you'd need there. A great bed for an invalid." It looked a bit like a coffin. Now a little girl comes in. I'd heard her in the bathroom throwing up. She is crying. I say, "Not feeling good, huh?" I feel a bit guilty for not having gone to help her. Then she looks distraught and I see she's having diarrhea. I say, "Oh, it looks like you've got the stomach flu. Go on into the bathroom. It's all right." She has left little piles of shit like chili con carne on the floor. I follow her in to help clean her up, only now I see the toilet is overflowing. Water is all over. She's crying. I yell down the hall to my father, "Hey the toilet is overflowing. Come help get the water cleaned up." He comes out to help. The girl is mopping up water with towels. It's a mess.