In my dream A and I are rolling around together and as much as I would like to continue, I kiss their hip and tell them my event starts in just an hour.

In my dream I begin to question if my friends should fly the plane I bought on eBay back to the East Coast; their stuff is on board and they are mostly seated, but so much could go wrong: can they really pilot? Where will I store the plane out there until I can fly it back? Meanwhile the plane idles on the grass of the back yard.

In my dream printed paper tape reinforces the bottom of a cardboard carrier, which seems to be an elegant solution.

In my dream the notice says that the event will happen at 1pm after “Kid’s Punjabi Football”.

In my dream J agrees to work together on a molten gold shirt, as part of a larger plan for all of us to take back control.

In my dream we rush down the ramp to get in the doors ahead of the crowd and as we do I see P, bowed in a khahki coat, pushing his way out. My light mood curdles and I avoid his eyes.

In my dream pouring red wine into the typewriter activates the characters in the game.

In my dream the game is won by standing various types of characters within the field’s central grid, which is sometimes marked by lines and sometimes dots. We grow more excited as we learn this.

In my dream felt is rubbed across my brow.

In my dream he brings down a plain black wooden case from the second floor of the antique shop. Inside are nestled two conductor’s batons, like wands. “They’re Bolands” the shopkeeper says, underlining their rarity. He’s destined to use them.