In my dream we get back and have to carry two huge taffeta gowns back to the recesses of the apartment which turns out to be under the control of an eastern European gangster. Entering his territory is tense and turns into a standoff where I am jabbing the handle of a paintbrush into his back, pretending it’s a gun. Luckily he finds this funny and lets us through.

In my dream the bus is full but not crowded,so I can see down the aisle and look at him as I gently begin to sing REM’s “Man on The Moon” to general approval.

In my dream we want the woods.

In my dream it’s April and raw. We resign ourselves to his sleep.

In my dream rain begins to fall outside of the restaurant at the top of the hill. We’re lined up at the door, students and teachers, joking about the trip. A student is explaining that she needs to get a band together for her project. The dark clouds boil outside.

In my dream his face darkens and we move downstairs. It’s a comedy.

In my dream the digital outline of the shack moves back and forth.

In my dream we’re clustered around the restaurant waiting for the final word on whether or not her son has survived the stroke he had on set.

In my dream the cascade is light but holds a happy dog.

In my dream I open the folder. Inside are three blue silk flowers, sent by the Harris campaign. In my hand, a white flower from Biden. Kamala Harris is two seats over in the thrumming auditorium so I try to tell her that people support her because she isn’t Biden and she shouldn’t let the white flower be included in the folder.