In my dream our options are lined up and wet.

In my dream we fly, skimming the warm ocean water until it is too shallow and our feet sink into the silky sand of the ramp.

In my dream the award show is so crowded I can hardly raise the sleeves of my caramelized onion suit to my mouth to nibble on them.

In my dream we discuss the need for a big wall in the studio and then I accidentally crumble a small sculpture of a cow sitting at a desk, forgetting how fragile the sugar is. A bird shits on my leg, just where the shorts end.

In my dream all that’s left is a sense of space, full and decending.

In my dream: greenery.

In my dream she has rented out her loft to a men’s sex party and we chat about the rest of her life while her chinchilla leaps on my back and wraps around my neck.

In my dream she carries the dog out of the storefront where she washed him. He’s a caramel French bulldog with fluffy hair and once she puts him down in the street where I’m laying I can’t keep my hands off of him.

In my dream picking through the wreckage on the lawn yields a few of the tempered glass discs the area is famous for.

In my dream I bend the kickstand back into place and thousands of gnats rise from the surface of the yellow bike.