After walking several kilometers through a residential area, I ended up behind a church constructed of beige bricks, in the church's wide back yard. When I stepped around the corner of the church and could see past the church and across the street to the house on the other side, I realized I was looking at the Gay Street House. I wasn't wearing my glasses and I couldn't see well, but finally I noticed my father sitting on a chair in front of the House. He was wearing a bright blue shirt, similar to one I had recently bought.

I quickly stepped back behind the church. My father and I hadn't been getting along well lately, and I didn't want him to see me. I was afraid he would think I was spying on him, which wasn't the case at all. I had had no intention of coming there.

Directly behind the church were several pews. After my long walk, I was quite tired. I stretched out on one pew and dozed off. But I quickly woke back up, suddenly aware that a man was sitting in a chair next to me. He was probably in his 50s and I had the feeling he was the pastor of the church. I was afraid he might not want me there, and I thought I would have to explain my presence, but he seemed unconcerned. Realizing he didn't seem to mind, I again lay down and fell asleep.

When I woke again, I was no longer behind the church, but inside the building. However, it wasn't a church at all. Now I remembered this was a little building which belonged to one of my relatives on my father's side. I remembered that the building stood behind my relative's large house, and that my relatives had allowed me to store some things there.

I recalled I had left several boxes of toys and games in one of the closets of this room. I walked over to the closet, opened the door, and saw all the boxes stacked up inside. I was somewhat concerned about the boxes because I was afraid moisture would seep into this closet and ruin everything. I decided everything would be much safer if I were to move it all to another closet on the other side of the room.

As I began moving things, I picked up two little yellow stuffed animals which looked like chickens. The larger of the two was slightly moving and I finally concluded it must have batteries. I thought I should take out the batteries so they wouldn't run down.

Suddenly I heard someone at the door. I was uncertain what to do, but I thought I probably shouldn't be there without permission, even though my things were stored there. I thought perhaps I should hide. But then I decided the best thing would be to simply face whoever was coming in. I walked over to the door and stood in front of it as it opened.

Standing before me was a man (perhaps 40 years old). He was startled to see me and he looked as if he weren't going to enter. But I quickly began talking to him, explaining who I was. I figured that he was the son of my relatives who lived in the house, and that he and I were probably cousins. I told him my grandfather's name had been “Cole,” and when he heard the name he seemed to understand who I was. It seemed his grandmother might have been the sister of my grandfather.

Once he understood who I was, he walked in and we both sat down. He soon began telling me he was a writer. Or at least he had published three different books, although it wasn't clear how successful they had been. He explained that when he wrote, he always used common phrases well-know to everyone, and he never tried to invent new ways of writing. I thought it interesting that I had a relative who was a writer, but I wondered if he would ever be truly successful. The hair on his temples was starting to gray. How much longer would he write? If he didn't write anything original, was it worth reading anyway?

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