You’re going to think I’m mad, but I have dreams, and in the dreams Jean-Michel is ageing. It’s as though he’s living in a parallel universe. And often he’s annoyed that I’m there, he’s like, “Don’t tell anyone I’m here Suzanne. Don’t tell anyone I faked my death, and especially don’t tell the New York Times!” He’s just living a really simple life, in the swamplands of Florida and he sells crocodile eggs. He has this hippy wife and about eight little dreadlocked children.
I have no recollection of writing, or even thinking, this. But I did so, at 0149, on Tuesday 7 September 2017.
I like it. Who is Jean-Michel? Who is Suzanne? Crocodile eggs?!
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