An Evening In Santa Fe

I probably shouldn't be trusted to communicate any thoughts after eating all that green chile, but in the twelve-hour nap that followed, I discovered the meaning of life, and maybe someone might want to hear about it. Naturally, I've forgotten the details, but it's hard to retain memory when you stay in a town where everyone lives in modestly upholstered sofas. After a good hearty walk, I'm tempted to sit down, when from underneath the cushion, a man yells at me to get off his roof. It smells like shop class. They must be carving "Beware of Dog" signs, which are both ubiquitous and unnecessary. In this part of the country, you should anticipate dog ownership at every sofa. Instead, the few without dogs need to hang signs that read, "No Dogs Here, Thank You". I think that a new sleep will help me remember the meaning of life. Instead, I dream about a xylophone with seven wooden bars. They are not quite in key with each other.