Traveling on bright roads lined with bright white-gray trees. The driver is a man who I eventually figure out is Truman Capote. Sometimes he looks like my dad, sometimes I don’t know what he looks like. We’re driving along and he is killing people with a small, palm-size black pistol at every stop we make. I am his hostage.
We are at a diner and I slip his gun into a tape case while he is talking slick to a waitress. I try to shoot him as he sits down, but he just laughs. No bullets come out. He keeps joking and showing me a card that says, "Maybe we’ll Jesse the next one," and laughs at me. After more stops and more killings, we end up in my bathroom. He is at the sink, jabbering at me about something or another while washing his face and hands. I jump up and grab the ceiling and start kicking him in the head. Swinging along on the ceiling, I keep kicking him. A small William S. Burroughs is sitting at a desk, all in black writing all of this down. He is swirling around.
After I had been swinging on the ceiling, we ended up in a room made of red, colorful little strands like a Koosh ball. The room had large holes in it. He fell down one of the holes and I dropped to the ground. Dream and Desire (from the Neil Gaiman comic Sandman) were dancing. Dream was flung back by Desire who "said" (in a word balloon), "Do you want to fuck me, Dream?" He declined as someone watched from the side.