i am returned to savannah, where i'm visiting with old friends. time has passed, but they look the same as they were when i lived there with them. we sit in their living room, and i put kisses all over their faces for a long time and with great care. then, i explain how the trim, the floors, the walls, the views, are all the same as san francisco, but there was no way i could have known before i left savannah that it would all be the same in california. they argue with me about every detail i compare and i am forced to admit they're right, nothing is the same at all.

i get up to go outside, and once there, i discover that the house we've been sitting in is built on top of a delta where two rivers meet and become one. i look at the rushing river make its exit from somewhere under the house and curve through an incredibly lush majestic forest. when we go around back, there's a meadow filled with a multitude of small, abandoned, worn wooden houses. they seem to have been placed completely uniformly, and each of them is on fire. they are all rather close to where we are standing on a balcony looking at them. it seems dangerous, but my friends are unconcerned. as i wake up they are beginning to consider calling the fire department.