That was enough. Just the sight of those fires along the beach. I don't feel like the story needs to go much further. Sure I need to tie up some loose ends: why the cops shot me and why I died; if I died at all; how a dead person could narrate a story; what value there would be in that; if any; and so on.
But that's not the part of the story that really interests me -- the reality of it or whatever. I'm not interested in the cops and the rain and the thunder outside. I'm not interested in playing chess. What I'm interested in is the dream I had the night before the evening I found myself in the coffee shop, and what about it I wrote down. If only I could remember. All my troubles would melt away. I must have left that pad of paper somewhere. How will I ever find it now?