The mind drips through the pores of my skin, oozing into the room like an overflowing toilet . . . or a miraculous waterfall of spectral light. Perception is the key — am I real or just a fantasy? I know I’ll be reading from my book “Alien Journal” next Thursday, Feb 11 at a bookstore — but the bookstore does not appear on any map. It is difficult to find because it comes and goes like a mirage. I’ve been there, surrounded by ancient tomes, books from Atlantis and Garmaghoo — tablets made from stone with carved hieroglyphics and sexual graffiti. My mind searches for clues as it seeps into the surrounding environment. It is like a wandering dog, hunting for a bone — tentacles wrapping around secrets to swallow and digest. I’m left without a means to interpret reality — bereft.