In my dream the fight starts bitter and ends as an inconclusive tussle: stuff is strewn around, people are winded. Later the art we made about each other is laid out on painted plinths.

In my dream Bill is the reason I’m at Litter Box the drag club, running into exes and deciding I had better go when he shoves a box of stuff into the dressing room for the SECOND time which means that the dogs start barking and we have to run for it again along the street, gasping, “You asshole!”

In my dream it’s pitted and glossy black.

In my dream watching things blink into existence.

In my dream the chenille rugs are blue and dirty, but I fold them because I’m packing all the family stuff from this antique shop: the letters, the pressed glass, bits of toys.

In my dream the cartoon fox gets a new invisible outfit which allows him to do kick flips and other tricks with the pillow case.

In my dream a peaceful passage in a black car.

In my dream the cabin of the plane sits on the roof, a white a and plastic helmet resting in the remains. On the street, I rummage in a box and find voxel displays of the Trix Rabbit, happy to be picking trash again.

In my dream much scrambled past but all I keep is how jaunty the typeface is.

In my dream the block-long assemblage is now valued somewhere close to fifty million, due to its proximity to North Africa. Look at it.