A man could not decide if his belt was too tight or too loose. Sometimes, in bed, he could not decide if he was hot or cold. He put on his long-johns and socks. He took them off and lay under the blankets, a thin layer of cold perspiration coating his skin. On the treadmill, he did not know if he was walking forward or backward. It was the same when he was stopped in traffic and the cars started to move and his car seemed to be drifting backward and he would slam on the breaks. There was this place he remembered that bothered him because it did not exist except in his memory. He had dreamt about it, perhaps several times, or he had dreamt once that he had dreamt about it several times. A run-down building in the Mission district of San Francisco, divided into cheap apartments. The walls were painted white, the doors red. Mildew, doors slamming, worn-out carpet. Maybe it was a place that he had forgotten and then dreamt about. He thought, if I woke up in the dark and did not know where I was, I could spit to see if I was upside down or right side up. He thought, if I were a spider blown across a mirror on a front lawn I would think that I was sliding against the sky.