Ravioli

Fighting with my brunette wife. In frustration I break crockery and windows in our house. I have the feeling we are both dead.

At my neighbor's house. He owns a bar. He has invited people over for a party. Many of them are young Englishwomen who walk past me in single file. I kiss one of them and notice that she tastes of tomato sauce. It is visible on her lips. I ask her if she has been eating ravioli. She says she has. The party goes on all night. There are sinister undertones.

The first light of morning. I am wearing my pajamas, boiling water for coffee and cooking breakfast. There are wild animals wandering about. My neighbor and I have particular trouble with a couple of bears, one black one brown. Giraffes wander by. I put on khaki trousers. I am supposed to let some gypsies into the house while my neighbor leaves to deal with a pick-up truck. A man arrives at the house and comments that my trousers are government issue. "Yeah," says my neighbor, "he can understand any official language and do what he likes with it."