In my dream we are expressing the glittering caulk across the grass.

In my dream the young hippo is crammed into the chapel, barely able to turn around, but happy when I scratch her head. Outside, bulbous pink fungi cling to the trees, meaning that we can’t go near.

In my dream the order of the cards determines where we go.

In my dream I clamber around a spindly structure, ten stories up, so that I can photograph his iced coffee. Later a search for a bathroom on the ground leads to singing “Respect Yourself” with a joyful guitar player on the street.

In my dream the children begin to wash the blood off.

In my dream it is my first night taking over for Ed McMahon on The Tonight Show. Earlier, I rode to work on the uptown ferry, slightly amused by other people’s sleepy roommate conflicts.

In my dream Oscar Wilde unfolds himself from the cloak room and announces what we all know: that he is a chef.

In my dream, we are lying down. The woods are sparse.

In my dream the streets are filled with parades and gender war.

In my dream it is only after I try to photograph the used clothing warehouse that I discover that all three of my phones have been stolen, swapped with items that look like them but are flimsy stacks of components  that only play Russian video, or won’t turn on at all. I panic: my bank account is probably gone. I have no way to check.