It goes like this:
I'm living in some village on the Mediterranean or Aegean Sea. I've been here a long time. There are a few other Americans around, but not many. This isn't a tourist destination. Few people know I'm an American, and those who know don't care. Most people around here don't know me at all – I keep pretty much to myself. I don't read the papers: I don't know who's leading in the AFC East, or what the president's approval rating is or whose natural resources we're stealing because Jesus wants us to. I long ago lost contact with the states. People I knew, women I loved (yes, there have been some) and places I went are all like a dream I once had.
I live in a second-floor apartment. I have one room that is a combination living room/library and a smaller room that's the bedroom. There's no kitchen; I usually eat in a small local restaurant downstairs.
It's the middle of the afternoon, and I'm lying on the bed, drifting between sleep and dim wakefulness. The walls of my bedroom are cream-colored. There's the bed and a small desk and chair in the room, all painted white, and no other furniture. There's a glass and a pitcher of water on the desk. A few ice cubes, melted almost completely away, float in the pitcher.
It's about seventy degrees. The bedroom window is open, and a breeze is coming off the sea. Sailboats drift across the small harbor.
This is my day, this is every day, this is my life. At least in the daydream.