Phone machine announces the crack of doom…the bubble bursts-the dream dissolves; return to what passes for consciousness with a Kurt Cobain sized headache…flaked out in front of the tube, where a guy in a suit covered with question marks says I’m entitled to a large share of gov’t money, which seems a stark reversal of the facts such as we’ve all come to know them…

“Cinco…you there? awake? sober?” chirps my agent deCastro, after the message-beep.

A little earlier, just before the big nod-off, I’d been taking a break from trying to patch somebody’s flat-tire of a screenplay. I sarted watching a 1921 Fritz Lang movie called ‘Destiny’; synopsis of which follows thus: “Hoping to find her fiance, a girl drinks a magical tea and faces an ominous apparition.” Which…now that I think about it, presents a certain parallel to the circumstances under which I was viewing this film.