In my dream I straddle the giant rotating pieces of ice, smashing them into each other until the entire plaza is waist deep in blue-green chunks floating in water.

In my dream a brightly lit square tells the story , step by step, of the construction of a calculating robot.

In my dream, there are more flowers than we need. The buzzing won’t stop when we tilt our heads.

In my dream we are crowded around the back of the car, watching results, walking, waiting, concerned about the air.

In my dream I compare the sizes of octagonal bedsprings because the report is due.

In my dream I am scanning BlueSky, looking to find my name in someone else’s posts.

In my dream the rooms are regularly spaced.

In my dream I examine a wax box bolted into the ceiling: the first piece of a new show. Then B tells me how excited he is at the prospect of me working in series again.

In my dream I visit a magic oriented friend who has taken  D.V. under her wing. When I mention his name, she sighs luxuriously and says “Ah! What an ice cream!”

In my dream I’m trying to introduce a visiting scholar to our commune’s technician because I think that her droning electronic instruments will sound great with the room size reed instrument the technician has built. They are also wry, vaguely Nordic lesbians, and I’m trying to fix them up.