The clown shakes the hand of each baby it encounters. I wander through a city block eating cheetos and feeling unsure of the weight of my dramatic escalations on my shoulders. There is no such thing as the thing I am thinking about, I remind myself. I wonder what thoughts could be if they are not real, and yet exist inside of me in a quasi-real way. My girlfriend is mad at me and can’t find cigarettes. We are struggling for money. We look to the clown to hand us his hand, that we might shake it and find in his palm a 100 dollar bill I lost somewhere. The clown holds both hands behind his back and offers to lift me up on his shoulders. I wipe the cheeto dust onto my shorts and embrace him.