In my dream the museum’s new wings are barely lit and my eyes have become so bad that I stumble through the exhibits, calling for help as a man howls and runs through the rooms of fossils and brocade.

In my dream a round of checking through all of the club’s lockers reveals nothing: I shouldn’t have shoved my video camera into a duffle and then put it in a locker and walked off yesterday.

In my dream there is one sentence in the dark: “We are a typical two-inch davenport:everyone dislikes us.”

In my dream my bottom teeth are unaligned and small groups of rats are debating whether or not to eat humans.

In my dream he hands me a folded bunch of new yellow bills. At least a third of them feel fake.

In my dream the play week is wrapping up and I feel replete. As I swim up to the surface of the pool I see one of our alligators hit the other one over the head with a bucket.

In my dream I hold a risograph book of sketches in olive and black. I scan the essay in the back, trying to determine whether or not the artist is queer, knowing I’ll be disappointed if they aren’t.

In my dream there is barely anything there in the darkness. A choice flashes.

In my dream I am walking with a blue card.