As a followup to my having related that the dream follows the real-life narrative, last night I dreamt that I was aswim in the licentiousness of urban Cambodia, with vacant-eyed perspiring young girls wearing red shifts and nothing else entreating me into dark doorways, the erotic foreshadowing the necrotic. Where did that come? For some reason, before bed, I chose to watch “City of Ghosts,” in which Matt Dillon finds himself largely in the situation described above.

But I still have no idea why I would dream I was mistaken for the bassist of Metallica.

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