in my dream, i ride a half-empty university shuttle that is forced to stray from its regular route because of an accident. the first scene takes place in Chicago, where Sheridan Road bends at Loyola, but soon the detour leads into less familiar places: a New York highway, perhaps. places I recognize within the dream but which, at waking, seem merely typically American: forking roads, orange barrels dividing lanes under construction.

the bus is now riding on a shaky wooden bridge. did we take a wrong exit? the bridge is in fact part of a decrepid system of elevated streets, winding around desolate buildings. we are in a different city. the bus is suddenly completely empty. the driver informs me with sadness that all these buildings are now marked for destruction. perhaps he grew up here; he seems to know what all these buildings are.

it is impossible to continue driving. even walking is difficult. smaller passways, providing shortcuts between the larger streets, are rotting, covered with a safety net, its threads also rotting. the buildings are traditional wood-panelled structures. their painted façades make me think of New Orleans. i have a sense of being at the threshold of an event whose outcome i might help determine if knew what to do.

the driver's foot slips, and he almost falls down with the putrefied planks. i don't even know how high we are. it's a separate world up here.

we enter an abandoned restaurant. silent workers sweep algae-covered floors with root-like mops. a souvenir kiosk is open without an attendant or anything to sell; only a rusty postcard rack.

there is something i am trying to remember, but my memory fails.