In my dream the symposium is hosted by a guy in a green jumpsuit and a squirrel tail who presides over a floor filled with giant tubes of macaroni and cheese. I ride around the perimeter in the hope that men will learn to be freer with their emotions

In my dream, the text on the flier is tastefully packed into one corner. Half is in French, half English.

In my dream each black marble step plays a tone. I try to explain what I find disturbing about him in a kind way while he stands on the roof without a railing, but every sentence derails.

In my dream the first floor of the vintage store is filled with floor length dresses pieced together out of white terry cloth scraps.

In my dream we dance about a “P” shaped sliver of white paper while singing a song about “Demi, the Half-Snowman”.

In my dream she tells me her history with the place. There is glitter. I can’t meet her eye.

In my dream he sits on a car in an overgrown gully.

In my dream the trans researcher tells me about the previous night’s raid by the government official, where years of work had been seized. I can hear the official’s smirking voice as they boast of getting “The milk from the dog show.”

In my dream, thickening water.

In my dream I’m pressed against the gate, confronting him with our spell book, “The Book of Three Hundred Flowers”