I wasn't directly involved in the war effort, but my friend was. He died a while ago. He appeared to me in a dream, and asked, "What if we hadn't lost the war? What then?" And I replied, impatiently, "If we hadn't lost the war, you'd be asking, 'What if we had lost the war? What then?' And anyway," I said, "anyway, you died. So don't talk to me again unless you plan on coming back, and even then ..."

My friend asked, in a dream, "Are you ever self-referential?"

Well, I am now. In fact, I am absolutely self-centred. I am going to keep talking about myself, and encourage others to do the same. I doubt that I'll be listening to anyone but myself though. I have discovered that what I really want to do is send away for my own copy of My Way of Doing Things, by me. I am going to include myself in a novel, and ask myself how I feel about it, and then review it.

The point is, nothing in the universe fails to be an aspect of me, or to wear my imprint. I know that much now. It is not going to be easy to interest me in things that are not-me.

Of course, my friend's death was much rougher on him than on me. Here I am, enjoying a coffee and donut once again, and a wealth of similar activities remains in store for me: I can go for a walk. I can buy a newspaper. I still have much to do. I have been able to continue doing things. I'm still available for interviews, for example.

I thought I saw my friend on a bus that was passing. I was standing at an intersection, the bus was leaving a stop and emitting a tremendous roar as it geared up to join traffic, and there, not ten feet away from me, I saw his face briefly in one of the windows. Or not? It looked like him, but he was scowling and wearing a weird cap. His face, as far as I could see in those few seconds, appeared to have undergone some efforts at disguise, maybe even some minor plastic surgery. And he was (I thought) looking a little peevish, as if unwilling to be recognised. But why sit in the window seat, in that case, idiot! Nu i durak! Maybe it wasn't him, who cares, anyway? Irresponsible ingrate! Off on some wild goose chase, no doubt.

I was sitting in a coffeeshop later, on a stool in the window. One of the employees was outside washing the window. He flung a big wet squeegee against the glass directly in front of my face, and for a split second I was gripped by an urge to shrink out of the way, but I knew that the water couldn't reach me through the glass and held my ground. He wiped the window clean, and then again: a shower of soapy water dashed against the window. Again I almost flinched. When am I going to learn? There's not that much time.