sometimes I wonder if it was even real or just a big, crazy, gut-wrenching, multi-dimensional, HD-vivid dream?I was studying in London for a semester and was at the National Theatre for the second time that week, a location which I never failed to mentally epilogue with a determinedly American “ER,” and therefore habit that was beginning to annoy the people around me just as their shyly exponential usage of “queue” was beginning to annoy me. We were waiting around to take a tour in, around, up, down, and through the theater. I had just come from six hours of straight class, and the sun was setting pink and pretty and perfect on the Thames. I was holding a plastic cup of water, half-mingling with my classmates waiting on other classmates, looking around and scuffling my shoes. Then Cillian Murphy walked by. “THAT WAS CILLIAN MURPHY!” Many people exclaimed. My professor looked sympathetically interested. The word inception went around, and from typing this with impunity from spellcheck I remember how it used to have a real, household usage. He didn’t leave much of an impression on me, as I didn’t recognize him, but I considered it enough of a coincidence that I had just learned his name a couple weeks ago and I observed that he looked neither glowing nor coked out but simply like a man in a trench coat who was walking somewhere. I wondered if I would feel more excited to see Brad Pitt or Richard Dawkins and decided definitely Brad. The whole event was in essence uneventful, just another grain of sand grazing another. I still miss London, but sometimes I wonder if it was even real or just a big, crazy, gut-wrenching, multi-dimensional, HD-vivid dream?