Hello. Don't be alarmed. It will only take you a moment to read
this, and I can promise you will feel better afterward.
	My dreams are quiz show dreams. A sad, sad man strapped to a podium
asks me questions from every field of human endeavor. We're in the dark,
which is not normal for a game show, but it helps me concentrate. When I
was 10 I got the knack of choosing what happens in my dreams, so that helps
too. Otherwise I guess I would not be able to pick how I answered the ques-
tions at all, and my performance on the quiz show would worsen. I get a bit
of extra light for each right answer; nothing big, just about as bright as
a kitchen match. I can come and go as I please between rounds, as long as
the timer isn't running.
	When I'm awake I'm sort of a cat burglar. Not too fancy. My friend
Rick got me into it, and I always owe him favors. He's got a whole bunch of
ways I can pay him back if I want, but I'm not violent and not actually dis-
honest, so that rules out just about everything. Rick is his real name, by
the way, so you could try to do something with that, but I don't recommend
it. I just don't think it's worth the amount of trouble for you. You don't
have to worry about me or anything.
	I got started with reference books because of the game show, but
not exactly how you'd think. It began because I heard about Freud, how
dreams can mean things that aren't obvious, and I wanted to read about that.
Libraries aren't mostly open when I'm awake, so stealing books out of peo-
ple's homes is really the path of least resistance. I quickly figured out
with the chains and fire and birds and all (sometimes there are birds) that
my game show host is the mythical god Prometheus. I don't see how it'll do
him any good for me to score higher on the game show, really, but I have no
other way to help. Plus, him being of divine origin gives my dreams a ser-
iousness I hadn't considered before, and I feel like I ought to make an
effort.
	I've taken your Riverside Shakespeare. It was on the top shelf, so
I hope that you aren't going to need it soon. This is an area I feel that
I'm lacking in, and Prometheus always looks disappointed when I miss things
from the literary canon. Good luck without it. I'll return it if I can, but
most people are more careful after one burglary. You might keep an eye out
for it on your front stoop; the worst that could happen if I leave it there
is a third party could re-steal it.
	This brings me to your stereo, which I have also stolen. That is
not coming back. It sounds stupid, but you should try to remember that
wherever it is, nothing bad has happened to it. A few things which meant a
lot to me personally got boosted from my car once, and it cheers me up to
think they're doing okay. Not much else to do about it.
	If you're curious, I'll be leaving through the kitchen window, going
from there to the fire escape and then to the rooftops, my world. I can't
lock the window from outside, so you should do that.
	I cased you a little; if this night is like other nights, you'll
be home in an hour. I started a fire in the fireplace. I don't think it'll
be a problem, but I moved a smoke detector in from the bedroom just in case.
	In addition to needing information for myself and money for Rick, I
took some of your underwear. You have a lot more of it than I do. No hard
feelings there, I hope.
	When you read this, I'll already be asleep and doing my best. You
should sit with the fire for a bit and think about Prometheus. You have
my heartfelt thanks.

written for Gwen in Mayor Alfred E. Vellucci Park 9/30/01

I was trying to "write down" to make the character seem intelligent yet not articulate. Unfortunately, I think that in many places this was equivalent to "sucking intentionally". On the other hand, the narrator's matter-of-factness permeates a pretty weird premise, bringing it back down to earth. I like that.

Elapsed time: 63 minutes. Particularly impressive because the piece is longer than usual (only one page, but single-spaced) and my fingers were going numb by the end. The romance of writing outdoors is a poor match for New England autumns.

- everything is by Aaron Mandel; please ask first if you're about to steal something -

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