In my dream I want the acid yellow over dyed duffle bag from Carhartt as soon as I see them on the fifth floor of Macy’s.

In my dream the setting sun lights up the heavily costumed stilt walkers as they dance through the South of Market parking lots, their paper streamers shaking and swirling. I can’t see their faces.

In my dream we are debating the resolution even as we stroll down the graffiti covered street towards the meeting room.

In my dream we name the ceramic sculpture “Father with a Conscience” and watch as it comes down the ramp.

In my dream I am about to administer my personality tests.

In my dream my head and arm are wedged in a black box.

In my dream my attention keeps returning to a corpse in the midst of piles of paper.

In my dream I keep returning to the black structure’s  looming, crenellated surface.

In my dream I’m excited to see my high school art teacher again but embarrassed because after all the years I haven’t returned the set of keys I have to her apartment. We trade COVID stories in the midtown restaurant when her husband shows up and wants to fight me. He’s ludicrous. I talk him out of it.

In my dream we are researching the past of the dusty toy store, crawling across the upper shelves, thinking about how it looked in the 40’s. A young woman keeps jumping towards the ceiling in the dim light, trying to slap price tags on balloons with a gun.

In my dream Suzanne and I are walking back through downtown from the last session of the conference. She compliments the drawings in my sketchbook, even as she wanders towards the auto parts shop.