It's a Sunday and I'm going to do a show tomorrow, so I'd better get ready. I eat caramels, which at first irritate my throat and I cough, but I keep eating them and get used to them. Each square candy has some information in it for the show. I'm going to lecture on Art In Spain. Each candy as I eat it creates like a slide show. I see one that shows the structure of a miniature house as it's being built. I'm glad because this will be good history to present in the show. I look for the number of that candy so I can find it again. I see two numbers. (see drawing). The first number is tied to a stick figure reindeer, so I choose the second number. I'm not prepared but it's time for the show. I feel nervous stage fright. Why do I keep doing this, I wonder? I go into the auditorium. There is a small crowd, maybe half a house. Oh well. I sit perpendicular to the audience and look at the stage. I see two red posters with words on it: my props. My mother and Ellie sit in the front row, in front of me, as I am actually facing the side of the audience (see drawing). My mother hands me folders of poems of a famous poet in case I want to quote him, to fill in time, or for contrast. Then the first act is on and my mother and Ellie are talking very loudly. I am embarrassed. Two black people, a man, standing and a woman sitting, are laughing loud and long. I think, "Uh, oh, tough audience." Then suddenly I can't see. I can't force my eyes open. I struggle and struggle, nearly panicked. I'd get one open a bit and be convinced things weren't where they were supposed to be. I saw the wheelchair I was sitting in, in front of me. I saw my own arm like it was up against my eye. (When I woke, it was.) I saw dry ice clouds and the four bright yellow and white machines making the fog to the right. I feel afraid and continue to try and force my eyes open. My mother stands up and walks to me. I say, "I can't see." She touches my eyes and examines them. She says there's a skin layer grown over the lids, holding them down (like scar tissue). She pulls it off. I can now see out of one eye occasionally. I still struggle. I say,"I guess I can't go on, maybe someone else can do my part, at least I'll be able to see the play I wrote." I feel frustrated and a little relieved