In my dream I sort through the food that remains in the apartment. The light is sterile.

In my dream she she steps directly out of the window in her office and falls two stories to a patch of grass on 72nd Street below. Old as she is, I am shocked that it doesn’t kill her and lean out over her desk to check.

In my dream I have to go back to my hotel room to get the sketchbook I’ve forgotten, because everyone else has laid their’s out on the table in the lobby so we can trade drawings.

In my dream I watch it on the office’s huge screens : the cultists spill across the island like pebbles on a board. I should kill him now, here while he chats away, but I know he’s too powerful. I arrange the books on the desk.

In my dream we crowd through the turnstile. Eight of my friends make it through, but once we get to the platform I lose sight of all of them in the crowd.

In my dream our hair waves in the thick air around our face. We are submerged, serene, about to give a gift.

In my dream the contents are all there in front of me.

In my dream I wear a violet sash and move through the morning grass to get to a place of calm.

In my dream I can’t name the city I’m in, but only I know that.

In my dream they are both my father and not. It’s my last chance to see them together and be with them. The rope snaps and the log rolls towards the cord.

In my dream I have an assistant who is heavily dressed and in need of attention.

In my dream I need to be wrapped up in order to eat.

In my dream a group of young people show up in the room I’m working in on campus late at night. One holds up two frayed USB cords, explaining that he needs to fix them, but he’s so vague that I figure out that none of them are even enrolled. While kicking them out I wonder if they’ve lifted a bunch of my stuff.

In my dream I can see the whole room but that doesn’t stop anything.

In my dream white labels and the chorus of a pop song. It all repeats. I am tired.

In my dream escape and celebration are jumbled together. My face and hands are wet.

In my dream the street is cluttered. On top of one stack is my power cord.

In my dream it’s time to look through the stacked paper bundles.

In my dream I’m going through all of the collages, handouts, zines and ephemera I’ve gotten over the past couple of days. I put the good stuff in a small bundle. This dress doesn’t  have pockets. I missed out on the short rib at the buffet earlier.

In my dream I catch two different guy’s hands in my pockets lifting cash. New Jersey is tougher to walk through at night than I thought.