In my dream Dan Ackroyd is planning a run for mayor of San Francisco and his team has sent a letter to my friend the restaurant critic for the local paper warning her off of challenging him in the primary. The idea is absurd, but I say to her,”Doesn’t it make you want to run, though? We could get up there and say: Don’t vote for us! we look nothing like this city, and neither does Dan Ackroyd!”

In my dream a dispute is telescoped. Her face advances to the foreground while the sound thins.

In my dream the decaying face of a businessman advertises the series finale from every billboard in Herald Square. When a child stumbles in the middle of the crosswalk, only a couple of people turn to help.

In my dream I walk up to the desk where the NPR interview is setting up only to be waved off with a “Talk to mama in New York”. But I’m here, now, on time for my appointment.

In my dream there is smoke that makes us feel ready.

In my dream I slouch up the street while from behind me I hear a couple of guys singing a United Front song. They catch up at the corner of 96th street and we push a plywood cart across the intersection, underneath the El.

In my dream we are upstairs rehearsing Assassins. I’m playing Zangara and don’t have a gun so I snatch a hot glue gun from a table. I can tell we are supposed to be off book. I am not. I sidle over to try to peek at the prompter’s script but they say “no”.

In my dream the air is hard. I want to see it roll.

In my dream it is round and white like a couch and they won’t see it.

In my dream we head through the blocks of sponge. We check our bodies.

In my dream the bus turns down a narrow side street in LA and on the left I see it: a sprawling shop with a name painted on the wall: Blake’s Costume Creations. I push out of the bus and onto the curb so that I can photograph the giant heads plastered into the walls and shop for parts of my new piece.

In my dream I’m told that after we pull the heist we are going to have to disappear, which means that I have to go through the squat and gather up all of my stuff. I go out to buy rolling bins to pack it all in.

In my dream I jump into the pad of white concrete circles, exclaiming “Skateboard Life.”

In my dream the argument is smeared.

In my dream I state that I understand why the chirping smoke alarm has been included in the jazz song on an intellectual level, but it just irritates me.

In my dream someone casts a “young forever” spell trapping us magic users in a concrete parking structure. We have to find a way to escape before we age backwards out of existence.

In my dream thirteen names are crossed out.

In my dream I run into D after the pride parade and it becomes important for us to find his wheelchair. I carry him in my arms like a pieta, while we weave through the people but the only chair we find is a white and gold painted highchair sized for an adult.

In my dream I’m in a group show installed throughout an apartment. At the opening, the young curators begin to excitedly discuss how many works are selling and how much the Board likes the work when they spot me and ask me to step into another room, implying that mine is the only exception.

In my dream we make it to the vintage shop just before closing, but it’s mostly antiques, not the clothing we were looking for. I pick out a hand painted diorama of the crucifixion that someone has shoved a figure of DC’s Dean into.