I enter my apartment building (not one resembling anywhere I’ve
lived in waking life). In the bustling lobby, I’m approached by a girl
with a sharp face and Viennese accent who tells me she’s come to visit
the Ice Queen. I offer to admit her to the stairwell and guide her to
the IQ’s apartment. We ascend an even number of floors, four or six.
There’s an apartment whose door is elevated above the floor, so that
several small steps lead to it. I point the visitor to that door and
tell her I think Cissie lives there. I long to linger as she ascends
the steps to ring the doorbell but, exercising the fearful self-control
I’ve exercised in waking life, I move back to the stairwell and
continue my ascent, so that I only dimly hear the angelic voice that
greets the visitor.
Several stories higher, I enter the apartment where I live. The
living room is occupied by a boisterous group. The sound of their
wassail irritates me a little and I quicken my pace toward my own
quarters. I pass several rooms and through long corridors before
arriving at my own ample room. There’s mail waiting for me on a table.
I pick up my subscription copy of Spider-Man and wonder how it got to
me, because the address printed so barely resembles anything
recognizable. Inside, Spidey meets an aged Venom who seems to be on his
last legs. His limbs are bony and long white hair flows from his masked
head. I’m not sure if they contend.