The following is a work of fiction.

Not Nick Nolte's Diary, Malibu, California
August 20, 2004


"Let it never be said our dreams do not inform our waking lives." Who said it? I did, diary. And perhaps I'm not the first. Anyway, I awoke last night surprised by the view: the cabin of my range rover. I must have dozed off in the back seat after my late Kendo lesson. Leon is a task master but I suppose he knows what he's doing. Anyway, I had been dreaming about a Swiss ski lodge I visited once between the "48 Hours" flicks. I was there. As was Bo Derek and Robert Shaw. We were playing the board game Probe. The ash and the smoke from the lodge fire filled my lungs and tickled my nose in a way I wouldn't have thought possible in a dream. But once I awoke, I wiped the condensation from the window to see the smoke had informed my waking life: another goddam brush fire had broken out by the driveway. That crazy pitcher Kenny Ishii lives up the road and his damned kids play with fireworks continually. I promptly got out and smothered the fire with the Orvis blanket that has been unused in the back of the Rover since I bought it. Then I looked up and regarded the widest moon I've ever seen sober. I will send Manolo out to replace it presently. The blanket, diary. Not the moon.

[signed] Nick

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