It’s another weekend without a scanner, so I’ve decided to draw a mental sketch. Imagine you’ve overslept (it’s Saturday), so you feel as if the nerves in your brain have shrunk two sizes, and there’s sand in your eye sockets. You decide to have lunch at d’Egg, so you make your way through a bunch of condo hives that are not worth forming mental pictures of, and you emerge on a broad brick walkway skirting the waterfront. The water is dark and oily, with clouds of fireflies appearing and disappearing just above the surface. The sun is hot, but a slight breeze reminds you that it’s still spring. You turn and look down a city street, and you think you’re experiencing an optical illusion: the tall buildings are warped and curved, undulating slightly. Steel and glass and stone don’t behave that way. But you realize you’re not imagining things. This is what your eyes are really recording, the heat bending the light waves, before your brain converts the image to what you think you know. And it reminds you of what was fascinating about dropping acid (remember, this is you, not me), that you’ve been granted the ability to see what’s really there to see, and not your mind’s translation. At the height of the acid experience, the world seemed to teem with movement and change, and you were just another manifestation of this slurry of activity. As you dip a spoon into your bowl of chili at d’Egg, you’re grateful for the flashback, the reminder of what’s underneath our delusions. Now that would be something to draw.