In my dream: first the fight where I die to the razor wire. Then, O has a tray full of food for me   along with papers and so I need to find them at the trattoria on the east side. C and S are there too, and we all joke with the waiter.

In my dream I circle one of six white sheets on a table.

In my dream the fight to escape requires me to smash a heavy ceramic mug into the face of a guard while singing.

In my dream it’s Market Street again. Through some hoardings I can see that the building’s lobby has been hollowed out, all three stories of it.

In my dream a cafe where a block of soft mauve shapes hovers to the side.

In my dream you dial it back for multicolored. And food.

In my dream he is Momus in orange.

In my dream I’ve got an old digital camera with a mode that produces pictures like grainy, smeared xeroxes. I love using it and while shooting the dawn on Canal Street, I  see the post-club crowd lined up for cinnamon rolls from the magazine shop on the corner of Broadway: each roll is fat, impastoed with cream cheese icing and studded with blueberries. I’m getting one with coffee.

In my dream the season is brown and I am trying to preserve it.

In my dream: a street corner and a fragment of a song, hummed.