It is strange that such a change of mind happened here in this shallow American resort, but I guess things like this do not always need to happen amidst depth and intellect. The themes that carried through the night astound me now in their brilliant clarity.

So down to the details. The recipe. The toga party. So here's the outfit: a pink satin toga. A dancefloor peopled with pink satin togas in various stages of coming untied. And then the earthquake hit me; the needle of the seismograph shot back and forth spinning a cocoon on the rolling drum of paper when a plate broke over my head. Shards of brittle stoneware scattered down around my feet and caught in the folds of my toga.

I held onto one piece of the plate and tucked it safely against my belly. Then someone reached over and picked a shard out of the olive leaf halo I'd braided around my head.

I'm looking into his eyes and the pink debauchery fades and the milky way comes into focus. The evening breeze mixed up the olive grove on my head and as his hands untie the sheets I discover utter sobriety and intoxication simultaneously. How we found the secret spiral staircase, how I came to be wiht Thor the Danish boy (endowed with a tongue ring and a thick ... accent...) under the stars.. and the olive wreath tumble falls to the rooftop beneath our feet.

Was it real or just a dream?