Strange feeling

These last months, it's like all of my friends have decided to invite themselves as guest stars in my dreams. One after another, I see them in composite places of New York, Grenoble, Lyon, Paris, B.l.V., Marseille.
France is everywhere. I'm in a bar that probably no longer exists in the South of France, knocking my knuckles hard on the counter and thinking, I'm really back, this is not a dream this time, this counter is real, those people are real. My first thought after this realization is, What visa do I have? How do I go back?
Then, cut. Waking up in Brooklyn.
Cut to late in a stormy night in a small bar in the Lower East Side, smiling at the barmaid and emptying my glass, and as I put back the glass on the counter I think, This is not a dream this time, this counter is real, those people are real.

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Some people, you love them so much you think life would be much easier if they were just dead. Because then maybe you could really forgive them.