A dream about B.N. Duncan

Dreamed of Duncan last night. It’s so strange when somebody who died pops up in your dreams. It’s like being visited by a specter from the After Life or something. . . Duncan was at our old vending spot in front of Cody’s Books. But he didn’t have a vending table, he was sitting right on the ground. And he wasn’t selling our art and publications like we used to, he was trying to sell these little scraps of paper. “Gee, Duncan, I gotta get you some better stuff to sell,” I said. “That’s the best I have right now,” he said. I asked Duncan if I could buy a cigarette from him. He said he was all out, that’s why he was out here selling scraps, to try and raise the money to buy a pack. “I’ll go buy you a pack of smokes,” I said. Duncan brightened up at that prospect. I walked down Telegraph Avenue in the direction of the store, got distracted and walked right by the store, had to double back. Walked into Fred’s Market and asked one of the employees if they sold Basic 100s, Duncan’s brand. He said he was pretty sure they did. I’m waiting on line to buy the smokes. The dream ends there. I never get back to Duncan.

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