A common ride on the 480 bus. It was 9:30 p.m. I had spent the day listening to music at my friend Rami's house, who had a sound system that must have cost fifty thousand dollars or more. We had discussed the qualities of the DVD-Audio, a new format that was the closest to an analog you could listen to on a digital disk. We listened several times to John Gorka’s new album, “The Gypsy Life”. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nobody sat next to me, I spent the ride home imagining and dreaming about the great success my next book will have. I was two months away from publishing my, what was then, newest novel, that was finally accepted by one of the best publishers and not in one of those small ones that disappear when the owner retires or dies. A good publisher with nationwide distribution. I thought about how boring a writer's life is. It is so boring that the only thing that saves us from boredom is making up stories, like young children who create imaginary friends and give them names to fill their world.
