He found himself sitting in an easy chair
In a sunny apartment,
Clean, with the feel of freshly vacuumed carpet
Beneath his feet.

He was by himself, but accompanied by the kind of loneliness that one feels before
Activating one's self for the day,
Opening up the door,
And glancing at the people meandering along the sidewalks.

So he grabbed the keys and the cell phone
That for some reason were his
And he walked out onto the golden street
And smelled late morning,
The sweat of the cyclists,
Chrysanthemums,
And freshly baked bread.

He wandered to the studio he half remembered
That waited past an aged red door and a rusting knocker
Bid good morning to a man who knew him quite well,
And then,
Then, it was time for work.

...And then, after six hours and a lunch break,
It was not.

So he left through the same door he went in,
Took the metro to a stop whose name he was unable to pronounce,
And arrived in a large garden,
Audience to distant music, crickets, and passing cars,
Surrounded completely by stars and jasmine.

And before he knew it,

He found himself in an easy chair again.
The ground was littered with crumbs
And the smell of stale beer infiltrated his nostrils.

It was 4:15 AM.
It was eerily dark.
And he was alone.

So he grabbed his keys and his cell phone and he headed for the metro,
Determined
And weaving
And bleary-eyed,
With a terrible taste in his mouth.

He was again headed for the garden.

Maybe there he would smell chrysanthemums and freshly baked bread.
Maybe there he would receive warm greetings from men he could not recall.
Maybe there he would find another easy chair.

And he prayed to the stars and the jasmine,
Tears in his eyes,
Slurring the words fervently,
And woke up soon after on a park bench in the sunshine.