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.

In my dream he sells locks for canvas bank pouches in the back of the shop. The cigars are so dried out they’ve become flecks of leaf in the package. This, the last open store on Canal Street, doesn’t have many days left .

In my dream the  hair clips and burnt matches have been taken off the apartment’s shelves and aligned on the shag carpet below.

In my dream the silver leopard kigurumi I’m wearing is comfortable but a little too playful, I realize, as my fellow highschool students begin to arrive for classes. I know I have something all black somewhere to change into but how to do that is confusing.