I was in the front row of a classroom, waiting for the professor. When he arrived, he made an announcement. I could not understand what he said, but the students behind me seemed to think he wanted them to introduce themselves. When they started to, he thundered at them, “What are you doing?” I became upset because to me it appeared that he had misled them or that he was overreacting.

I remembered that I have a degree and wondered why I was there. I looked on a schedule and found that I was enrolled in two full years of classes and that the first course was on “Potato.” All of this was clearly a waste of time and money, and I dreaded canceling my classes, telling my parents, and packing and moving home again. Had I not been through this before?

I went to my room, which was like a warehouse. A stream of water was pouring from the ceiling. In a panic, I went to someone — perhaps my mother? — and told her about the water and that something must be done right away. She looked at me angrily and said, “It’s all much worse than you realize. It’s more than you. Take a look around.” I did, and now there was water pouring down in this room, another warehouse. It was bare, and all the ceiling tiles were missing.

I returned to my room; I had a hunch I would find the same conditions there. It felt a little like an apocalypse or that we were traveling backward in time, and the condition of the building reflected a regression from the contemporary to the more primitive.

I could see that my life was ruined and felt the waves of despair begin. Again.