My family and I enter what appears to be a huge, sprawling
store. Once inside, it eventually turns out to be a hotel cum
convention center as well. I am looking for esoteric literature. I then
retire to the living quarters here, perhaps to read. These quarters are
very squalid. The walls and floors are bare and grey. The communal
restroom sports a toilet in each corner. The bedroom I retire to also
appears to be communal, since it contains a number of flimsy wooden
beds. Only one other bed is occupied at the moment, though, by
Carmelita Avila, a red-haired airhead I knew in high school, and the
simian boyfriend who made a practice of trailing her. None of us seem
surprised at the lack of privacy. I don’t recall what I read. Later, I
am alarmed by some impending danger and shut the windows. That may have
not been the most effective safeguard, since a black mastiff of
sinister aspect later appears in my room. Although it makes no overt
menacing motion, I take fright and hurry out. Eventually, I find myself
in the more public part of the place, which is as opulent as the living
area was squalid. In a large hall, a multitude of people throng around
a few who are giving out something. I join the crowd and find that was
is being distributed and enthusiastically received is political
literature pushing some kind of agenda. I find this vacuous and
uninteresting. “The crowd is untruth”?