In my dream there’s only a few months left anyway so taking pictures of what the refugees have scrawled on the walls seems like a pointless act.

In my dream the kid runs around the street past his grandfather and we bump heads affectionately.

In my dream beyond the pastrami place in the station’s food court is the place with the towering cakes shaped in the threefold faces of pagan gods that surround the windows. They are like pillars soaked in rum.

In my dream, while we hang out at the station, I start to improvise a jokey musical about being in a cult: “I don’t like mangos, they can go away, but I love seeing YOU every day, hey hey hey”

In my dream J and I have stolen from smugglers who now want us dead. There are few places to hide in the house. I flatten myself against a wall. There is no taking this back. The only possible escape is traveling to Nigeria, acting the feckless retired academic.

In my dream it’s past the day to leave and I have to apologize to the host’s other roommates in the craft store across the street. They hand me a paper bag with the stuff that’s left, but I know my phone isn’t in it.

In my dream shooting stars crowd the sky above a Spanish beach on my last day.

In my dream I’m racing back through the hallway to tell the three jokes I’m no longer sure about.

In my dream I can push the shredder in the shopping cart.

In my dream we can return it and the kitten is tiny and frantic.