Walking down Haight Street. After grabbing a chocolate croissant, I talk to a bum about heaven and finding the path of least resistance. I give him a bite of my croissant, because he asks nicely. There's dew on the ground, and giant chess pieces float above me like clouds. Every now and then a piece moves. I wonder who's winning.
I say goodbye to the bum. Walking again, down a hill, I run into myself. Myself is wearing a colorful flannel and skintight jeans. Cigarette in hand. Myself is looking real good.
I offer myself a bite of croissant, because I think he may ask nicely. Myself says no. I shut my eyes.
"I love you," myself says.
I feel his words -- I mean really feel his words. Like nothing before.
"I love you too," I say.
When I open my eyes, myself is gone. I finish my croissant, because it looks so nice, then look to the sky: Checkmate.
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