In my dream the subway car has been prepped for the long trip to the new planet. I look around the stainless steel interior and wonder where the food has been stored and if we are meant to eat each other. Later, in the shop, they show me the antique envelopes addressed with bulbous crosses in shining pencil.

In my dream I am talking with P in the cafeteria after the performance about how Mike Kelly’s work has been digested and misunderstood by the art world. A young journalist nods along, but only half-heartedly, their pudgy hands on the paper covered table.

In my dream the personality test leads to chucking stones through the wall.

In my dream we’ve retreated to the inner room and have started reconfiguring the bars of soap that make up the floor. We need to finish before the clouds of yellow dust on the horizon reach us.

In my dream the two sides in the magic battle are attaching swinging silk bags to the underside of the tables. Everyone knows who started it.

In my dream the first dress selection is projected on the wall.

In my dream the round, velvet covered speakers from the Seventies look good, but they would have to be rewired so instead I buy the white pasteboard replica of the chapel.

In my dream there is a sense of remorse far away.

In my dream we’ve covered both cars with white shells up to the windows. They sit on the structure above us like brides.

In my dream there is distant repetition.

In my dream the sandwich shop is old cheap wood painted white and I am there after two different art world friends have told me they want nothing to do with me. Fried meat glistens behind plexiglass and when the cook returns it is to negotiate a price for the spell she is casting on my behalf. I feel sour and hollow.