In my dream there are twenty five thousand, one hundred players.

In my dream their body is made of plastic red peppers with googly eyes, symbolizing their lust for another character. This will be useful later in the game, once it doubles.

In my dream the toy train track is crowded and pink. When I pick up the bouquet the wires jab through the cellophane before I can hand it off.

In my dream there is a gentle green slope where foggy white squares hover.

In my dream the acid green y-fronts need explaining.

In my dream I try to keep track of our last needle and there’s by taking a few short stitches with it through the sheer curtain.

In my dream as I climb the upended deck I think about what a clever film maker Michael Bay is, taking time in the midst of this tense boat sequence to include a shot of a cute pangolin rolling in the street. Later we wait for the bombs to pull the oxygen from the air around us.

In my dream I have to pay attention to the fluctuations of the golden face.

In my dream the consolidation of the art world continues: walking through a blocks-long mega gallery, I meet five different women friends who have been hired there in various capacities. Each is tidy and glad of a job, part of a swarm of activity. The show features hundreds of antique traveling trunks.

In my dream I feel the muted shuffling of the rooms possibilities.