In my dream the shreds stop.

In my dream each aspect of the house we stop at reveals the horrors we will confront as we are divided and sacrificed: the drive way, the bank vault. She tries to drown herself. Madness shows itself when you forget that there is no name other than Bill.

In my dream I can and will sing “Wave of Mutilation” at karaoke. In my hands the huge meatloaf sandwich is almost impossible to return to its proper shape. Every time the infant goes by on the cart I get him to laugh.

In my dream the dollop of shaving cream they throw is such a joke that I skip up to it and pretend to slip.

In my dream they exit onto the field brandishing a gun. In my dream the students are sketching in their books. In my dream the students are bent over their sketchbooks, drawing.

In my dream edged gray.

In my dream I know the waiter is a fan who is flirting with me when he tells me about the swimming contest but I walk away and point him to my friend at the table who asks if he wants to see her “pink feet”.

In my dream the car’s windshield is a video screen, a fact I understand when it fills with large blurred pixels at a crucial moment.

In my dream there’s a new kind of coffee press and the phrase “female chicken inspector”.

In my dream we are playing a JRPG about freezing and reading time over various screens. There are swords and glancing trajectories.

In my dream the brush fire could have spread but I stomped it out. We are selling the monitors alongside packages of the various empathetic signs.