In my dream he asks me if I want a series of things including a Baba Looey. In anticipation of the squished ball of discolored, sticky brown rubber, I explain that while I like the design of a lot of those sixties Hannah Harbera characters, I don’t like many of the toys associated with them.

In my dream we’re a little drunk so we throw radishes around the restaurant and after clambering down the snowy stairs, we compare tips about preserving the patina on our cast-iron pans while we scrub them.

In my dream we talk about how a lobby near midtown could actually work as a class room in a pinch.

In my dream I’m cleaning my apartment as I prepare to leave. The question is do I try to hide the evidence of the murders I’ve done there l, or just accept that they will be found out?

In my dream there is a white wooden circle stuck in the ground. My dress is slipping.

In my dream we’ve planted something. A question has stopped us. There is wind.

In my dream there is a memory of folding.

In my dream I return to the apartment above the Chinese restaurant that I’ve been using as a workshop only to find every green carpeted  room filled with new “roommates”, who have no idea who I am.

In my dream a grey and white painted fence encloses a junkyard.

In my dream my humiliation has led me to a flirtatious battle of wits with a foppish aristocrat as he dresses: “And when you are a child? Absolutely no one likes you.” He slips his gloves on.

In my dream Nikki Minaj hands me her phone so I can look something up for her. It is absurdly small and flexible, like a piece of leather.

In my dream I head up to the top floor in an old  elevator to find the ramshackle studio of an artist. I envy his weathered desk, the lumpy rich work he has scattered around the dim room. As we talk, I start to love him.

In my dream: sorting in a hallway.