In my dream the demand for beverages at the year-end party is such a crush that I give up and end up skiing down the snowy streets to the Safeway the following morning.

In my dream it’s a street that we both know and we move through it quickly.

In my dream I am fitted into a container. The view is satisfying.

In my dream we scan the water, picking out debris and looking for the flash of a green metal bracelet just below the gray chop.

In my dream I am sending her to meet the three city officials. She is made of carefully folded white paper.

In my dream she is bubbly after learning that someone has drawn me reading a book as a modern day version of Disney’s Jafar.

In my dream it’s in the back of a cluttered music shop on a shelf: a hand made tarot deck with two sets of cards: one that is standard rectangles and one that is cut into a self portrait silhouette of its maker. All the cards are laminated silk, vividly painted. I speculate about the woman who created them while gathering them up to take home.

In my dream the banged-together metal container rests in my arms.

In my dream it’s early morning and I’m making my way through midtown with only an empty cereal box to preserve my modesty. Luckily, department stores have just opened and the one I enter is hosting a celebration of a young designer who loves “superchubs” and dresses them in multilayered maribu suits and bulbus crochet body stockings. Three floors up is model casting. I want these clothes, want to be in them.

In my dream we sneak back into the apartment on 94th below West End, the one I’ve dreamt of many times as my perfect place. People are moving out and I flatter the landlord, trying to find out the rent.