A reprise of my final departure from Atlanta, presumably. Set in a precarious lunchroom, chromium picnic tables arrayed in a row over permanent scaffolding above a well-lit abyss. I maneuver in & out of my position amidst former workmates from the Indy and members of my own family. The seating arrangements are preposterous. Who set this up, a blind wedding planner?
My mother is in attendance-- a first for these dreams, as she's usually never anywhere to be seen --and she's visibly tearful, but that doesn't affect me any more than seeing Greg's wistful smile. People who perpetually spoke of my Value (my Meaning in the Great Script, as 'twere) while never delivering any actual evidence of their love. "Keep your promises" seems to be the message, here, and nobody seeing me off did. Everyone knows I'm going, because I've chosen to tell them, but where the fact of my departure should be celebratory instead there's a general apathy. Again, an absence of Meaning.
I sneak into Greg's car & filch a few roach-ends, make sure my bag is loaded, and look over my bike. Everything seems to be in order. Except for some sort of nagging irritation in my left shoe. I adjourn to the bathroom & discover one of my toes is not merely injured-- it's hollow. The damaged skin flaps, and I am alarmed. Not at the injury: at the fact that I do not feel it. There is no pain.
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