Welcome to the Plainview Hotel.

Orange juice. Instant oatmeal. A faint ringing in my ears. So this is how it all begins?

Outside, it's sunny but I'm pretty sure it's going to rain because the hand I broke is throbbing. They took the cast off two years ago. Apparently, what I forget my bones remember.

Locks unlock. A door opens. A door closes. Locks lock.

-How you feeling, Matt?

I want to tell Jack that I feel like running. I don't want to be here and I'm really not happy with the people who brought me here. I'm a coward though, so I make a mental note to air my grievances with my family as soon as possible. I'm shaking, cold and full of fear so I hold up my orange juice and say:

-Is this freshly squeezed?

- Nothing but the best for the degenerate guests at this hotel! We've got an Olympic size pool on the first floor, a theatre, an atrium... take these and get dressed. You have a class at 9, another at 10, lunch, recreation time, more class, tests, you'll see the doctor and then you'll eat dinner.

Two blue pills. A sip of Florida's own.

Locks unlock. A door opens. A door closes. Locks lock.

I am alone again. I can hear other guests milling about the halls. Laughing. Planning. I assume some are going to breakfast. Some are going to swim. Some are going into town. I do not know that all of them are fighting for their lives. I know I miss Jack. That he's keeping me locked in here to keep me from killing myself out there.

I'm 31 years old. I have a University Degree. I'm an accomplished writer with the awards to prove it. And I'm the dumbest person I've ever known.

Later I would come to learn that this was the precise moment it all began.

Top of the 12th at Kingdome Field

Baseball players are superstitious. I don't know this from hanging out with many - in fact I haven't hung out with any.

Nomar swings his bat five times, tighten his gloves and taps his shoes. Papi spits in his hands (although whether this is superstition or poor hygiene is still up in the air.) Trot never washes his helmet so that, by September, the iconic "B" (sadly a drab "C" now) is hidden behing 300 at bats worth of tar, grease, spit and leather.

It's the rare achievements, though, that come with the most superstitions and paranoia. In baseball it's the perfect game. When there's a sense in the yard that magic is happening no one, not even the fans, utters the words perfect game. It's a jinx, a hex...hell you can say fuck, shit, bitch and asshole to the four year old sitting next to you if you want. Just don't say perfect game.

So if you see me on the street don't congratulate me. I haven't done anything I wasn't supposed to be doing all along. Don't wish me luck. Luck has nothing to do with this. And for God's sake, no matter what you do, don't say perfect game.

Instead say fuck, shit, bitch and asshole. I've become accustomed to hearing those words directed at me. But whisper, please, if you could. It's the Top of the 12th and I'm coming out to the mound.

The Proctor

Sometimes,

Everything lost in a nightmare

Outweighs everything

Discovered in a dream

And I wish my story,

Was written with a Nunber 2 pencil.

So I could start manically erasing,

And modifying the moments.

But I can't because I'm awake.

So I daydream.

It's The Mornings After I Love The Most.

7:11 A.M.

That's my new wake-up time. I used to have no control over that. Today I do. That means hitting snooze three times. So really, my official time of arrival is 7:40 A.M.

I guess a twenty-nine minute landing approach isn't so bad. It's better than a holding pattern because when you're going around in circles --banking left banking right -- you never land and you sure as shit never get anywhere.

I like toast now. Whole wheat with "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" and strawberry jam. I have the utmost faith that what I am eating is strawberry jam. But it would take a legion of Amish women to convince me that what I'm eating is really butter. I wrote a letter to the company:

Dear So and So:

I can believe it's not butter. I have enclosed a receipt. May I please have a refund?

With grace,

Matthew Daley

P.S. No one I know believes it either. Pretty soon the only thing spreading will be the word.

I shower. I shave. I don't throw up. I pray. I brush my teeth. I get dressed. I have no regrets. No remorse. No confusion. No wonder.

Life is different now. I feel it most in the morning when everything is new again. I am clean.

Paper on the Move. Baby in the Cupboard.

I saw a woman this morning pushing a baby stroller
full of 81/2" X 11" copy paper.

My first thoughts were: "Did that hurt and did you get paper cuts?"

When I got back to my office I couldn't help but wonder:

"Is there a hungry little baby in a supply closet somewhere? If so, am I obligated to find and save it?"

My second thought is always more altruistic.

Swim at Your Own Risk ( The Lifeguard is Off Duty.)

I was in love with a lifeguard when I was twenty.

She was tanned, beautiful and full of joy. Of course, I imagine a lifeguard shouldn't be sullen, angry and full of shit because no one - not even someone choosing between the white light and white concrete - would want CPR from a lifeguard with bad breath. Besides, there was enough shit, anger and regret seeping out of my pores to comfortably feed the both of us for years.

She saved lives. I made pizza. I saved pennies. She made lemon chicken and crepes. We had sex on a soccer field during a thunder storm. I knew then - somewhere around the 30 yard line - that sex before marriage wasn't a sin. If God wanted to strike us down, I can't think of a more appropriate opportunity.

She was strapping on roller blades ( "A fad." I told her. "It'll never last.") while I was lacing my shoes for a walk that lasted far longer than originally intended.

I finally said sorry today. She accepted. Once a lifeguard, always a lifeguard.