In my dream, the feeling of an edge being stripped off.

In my dream I am trying to run a community meeting where more and more people are signing up maliciously to speak as we go around the room.

In my dream Manila Luzon lounges in our corral in Times Square talking about the time she acted alongside Clarence Williams the Third while lights flash in the warm night. I walk away and the further I go, the more layers of muck accrue to my bare feet until I am searching for some vendor that sells Crocs and some way to hose them down.

In my dream V brings a rare Ice Pine sapling to the lab where D has been propagating them after the tragedy of losing a seed.

In my dream no image remains but one of rounded shadow.

In my dream I’m absorbed in painting the model rocket ship, dry brushing rusty highlights over the surface. Then the tentacle packs inside.

In my dream the hallway is cool in the twilight.

In my dream, churning.

In my dream it’s the end of the event when they tell me I’m hosting a panel discussion. People in the loft are finishing their food, starting to talk and unwilling to be wrangled into another conversation even if I could find their names and speaking order on my phone.

In my dream a lost phone leads to a swiped suitcase leads to a smirking job announcement leads to a punching contest leads to a broken wall leads to a concussion leads to a stolen black suede jacket leads to a reconciliation, all on one filthy intersection.

In my dream: blue dough, patched black canvas and someone has given me something that I now regret being without.

In my dream the argument stills itself.