Do not say the thing that is easily said. Say the other, say the nothing, say the silence, say the unsayable, and save yourself (sort of) through the saying. Gold dust wafts down like filigreed motes from a rain-swollen ceiling. You breathe in gold dust and wonder about the Dream Inn that talked to Patti Smith, you wonder if Patti Smith’s Dream Inn is connected to Haruki Murakami’s Dolphin Hotel. A multitude of hotels and motels that exist as way stations for dreaming and liminal grooves. They are everywhere. It is a matter of psychic recognition, of subtle attunement. Word by word, you construct a self. The ghost of Patti Smith walks side by side with the living Patti Smith. This is how the writer lives side by side with herself. Surveillance is 24-7, it is a stalker’s game, you track where you are and where you are not simultaneously, an existential simulcast, a sideshow creeping. Patti Smith is a collector. The patina of time has engraved itself on many of her possessions, her keepsakes, her amulets. Longing, she moves through a tangled net and marginal haunt of memories, commiserating with ghosts and their daily bread from which she draws sustenance to keep living, to keep writing.