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August 2, 2012

I was waking up hundreds of times per minute, each time in a different part of the dark street. I tried to write in my consequences diary, but the situation changed too quickly. 

Kate raved about her new Orthodontist. 

We walked to Shimokitazawa. Jeff was talking to us about his latest Performance Art projects. He stopped talking, mid-sentence, and stepped into an alley. Hey cried out, “Listen up everybody! This is going to be the most exciting street…” Nerida, Kate, and I kept walking without hearing him finish. 

“Jeff’s new projects seem to be going well,” I said, “He has asked me to listen and record his progress.” 

“It could be that that’s what he wants,” said Nerida, “but it also could be his condition.”


“He has been seeing different psychiatrists for the past few years. I guess he thinks that you will make a good one.”

Jeff had had insomnia for six month. He would get three minutes sleep, then his temperature would drop to what he called a “fever” of 26 degrees Celsius. He would stage Performance Art late at night to keep himself warm. After a week, he was hallucinating audience members and awards.   

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