In my dream we mold the clay and dip the bottles matching the stripes to specific DNA over and over. The actress is blankly modest but she has stolen the work of a local artist and thus the right to their studio. By the end I’ve forgotten how the process works and am losing my place in line.

In my dream the Christmas retail displays at Lincoln Center lead me to a  wan teenage architecture student trying to insinuate themselves into a musical about Japan.

In my dream the old notebooks suggest new plans.

In my dream the hunt for an mc goes on across multiple emails while I pack and try to get a flight back from Chicago later in the day. The food is good, but a crafty woman swipes the cards from my wallet in the pre-dawn street while staring me in the face.

In my dream we are moving down the street in flashing yellowed sunlight. Her voice, blunt with cynicism, keeps commenting until we are done.

In my dream: musical numbers, irate fellow artists, a retirement party.

In my dream I sort through the metal furniture with the smell of soured dairy  in my nose. Nothing is right, but I don’t stop.

In my dream we live in the aftermath and someone asks “Can we have bars instead of dinner?”

In my dream I drive carefully down the crowded hallway. From the back seat my boss grills me on the cast-off phone parts the occupants have incorporated into the clusters of memorial sculptures outside.

In my dream two figures alternate poses and radiate fire as they do.

In my dream a few houses have pink and blue stripes fainted on their facades, which is comforting.