I dreamed the same dream that you dreamed, except I only fell halfway into the cavern and was caught by a platform which turned into a stage, which turned into Paul Simon's apartment in the 80s. How is Paul Simon like anyone I've dated? I can't parse that. But after I'd heard his stories and felt so small and happy in his company, I knew he was at least my boyfriend. So I asked if I could use his bathroom. It had clear walls, and from it I could see the TV and this horrible movie that Paul loved, a horror of a werewolf with a top hat prowling in heavy fog. Paul Simon had his own bathroom across the hall, with walls of clouded glass, because, you see, in some ways he was hiding. "Turn off the movie," I said, "or I'll never leave this room," and I paced around inside, and he paced around outside, making faces like the monster in the movie. "I'll call the police," I said and grabbed the toilet paper roll like it was a phone. Outside, Paul picked up his actual phone and dialed the actual police, and at the end of the dream, I heard sirens. For me. When I didn't do anything. I mean, really, I didn't do anything.