Never gotten used to the gravity here. That is, if I am in fact here. Fell asleep standing up in an alley again, apparently. Jerk awake to find myself hurtling towards the feces-spattered cement. Land facedown in miasma of semi-liquid stink, boxed in on either side by seething brick anthills. The world’s tilted, covered with greasy grit; streetlights prism spasmodically. Suspect I have been drugged, back-brain suppressor most likely. So I been mickeyed. Who hasn’t? Wonder if I squealed anything. Looking down, realize that I’m in someone else’s clothes, Feel queasy and fight down The Fear. I could be anyone.