Right now, a strange man in athletic shorts is sleeping on my couch. His name is Mark. I think he might be kind of crazy. I might be too.
He called me yesterday at 8 am, telling me he was leaving Mississippi. He got to my door at 4 am. I went to sleep around 11 pm, waking up periodically to call and ask where he was. I’m not sure if this actually happened, but I remember calling him around 3 am, remembering that he was, in fact, Sartre (Stranger — Camus — Sartre, get it?) and calling him that, and him saying “No! Mark!” and then I hung up on him.
When he finally arrived, I instructed him to sleep wherever he wanted, and then I went to back to sleep. So I haven’t talked to him at all. I hope he doesn’t rob me or murder me. Keep your fingers crossed!