I'm feeling like rain on car windows, watching the passing wet world made sad by lonely melody, staring into space and wondering if the Dalai Lama of Doom spent the night.

The lama is never as lonely as he looks, nor as lost in thought, nor as harmless. He's a fair lad; he wears clothes that look like they'd be good for a cuddle: oversized sweaters that hang on him like he's nine years old and keeping his hipster older brother's wardrobe warm. his movements are far from awkward, though - he moves around inside the looseness of his clothing like it's the only home he's ever had. In fact, these large garments may be the only place the lama has ever felt truly comfortable.

The lama's world is quiet, and so I think of him now, now that my world is quiet, too. I imagine the lama reading, his palm splayed across his bare scalp.

I see him moving to electronic music in some small club, and gradually the oomphs and claps decrease in volume, and I see him in slow motion, his arms swinging, his eyes closed, oblivious, making this quintessentially loud scene into his own silent paradise. I only hear the hiss of my tires, and the doppler-shifted whooshes of cars passing in the opposite direction, and the hiss is the lama's steady brain wave and the whooshes are the moving lights - soft red, i think - passing over his lowered eyelids at irregular intervals.

I pass liquor stores and restaurants, and I imagine that for the lama, these places only exist when he needs them. Otherwise, the lama sees the landscape only in terms of its natural topography. I close my eyes for a moment, just long enough to see the world as the lama must. When I open my eyes, the gigantic neon sign advertising a tiny pharmacy reads: A.J. Hormone Apothecary

Now, I can't remember where I'm going, I don't know where I am, the wet world outside is foreign and terrifying, like the sudden scratch of a turntable's needle. Surely the lama must bleed, like the rest of us - he's only human. He must cry, he must fuck, he must have a breaking point, he must eventually rage. I wonder if the lama ever pities himself.

He came to my house only once, and then to ask what I had in my liquor cabinet. I told him to look for himself, and when he came into the living room he had a small glass of vodka held in both hands. I could only see his fingers - the rest of the hands were covered by the loose sleeves of his enormous black sweater. He sat on the couch, legs crossed under him, and slowly sipped the vodka for a long time without saying anything. Finally, he took his glasses from his angular face (the glasses were small, with squared rims) and set them on the coffee table. I made no attempt at conversation, as I was awed by his acute sense of timing and the physical grace with which he moved.

And I come back to myself, and I remember where I'm going. I'm the observer. The lama speaks and I record. He'll make his way with soft steps to a lotus garden somewhere, and I'll drive through the rain, my tires describing the lama's brain wave on the road.