In my dream I pull apart branches and panels.

In my dream I’m the sole person in the studio building late at night. It means I’m free to take a few empty test tubes from someone else’s space. Their name starts with a J and is written on a chalkboard on the wall I’m behind.

In my dream I am trying to help J to slip the patrol and escape through the hotel’s crowded lobby. J is skittish and keeps changing their mind. I wrangle them through the crowd and into the restaurant. We need to act normally.

In my dream the parking lot attendant and the usher are both as excited as I am about LaBelle performing at the local hotel. “We’ll sneak you in”, they say.

In my dream we three are cleaning the kitchen in the aftermath of the dinner party. As I scoop beans and rice off of the counter we sing “Beautiful Girls” from “Follies”. Somehow that last long note falls to me and I wobble my way through it, embarrassed.

In my dream the same four men keep changing their names.

In my dream the air is thick. Things crawl past my eyes.

In my dream I order roasted meat off of the spit on the street.

In my dream I circle the block, picking up materials for my next show including tarred branches and stretch silicone foot braces which are embellished with lavender figures and nubby flowers.

In my dream there is chattering. There is a table. There is a woman.