In my dream I am trying to help J to slip the patrol and escape through the hotel’s crowded lobby. J is skittish and keeps changing their mind. I wrangle them through the crowd and into the restaurant. We need to act normally.

In my dream the parking lot attendant and the usher are both as excited as I am about LaBelle performing at the local hotel. “We’ll sneak you in”, they say.

In my dream we three are cleaning the kitchen in the aftermath of the dinner party. As I scoop beans and rice off of the counter we sing “Beautiful Girls” from “Follies”. Somehow that last long note falls to me and I wobble my way through it, embarrassed.

In my dream the same four men keep changing their names.

In my dream the air is thick. Things crawl past my eyes.

In my dream I order roasted meat off of the spit on the street.

In my dream I circle the block, picking up materials for my next show including tarred branches and stretch silicone foot braces which are embellished with lavender figures and nubby flowers.

In my dream there is chattering. There is a table. There is a woman.

In my dream plates are lined up in front of her and as a form of endurance she has to drink a pint of gasoline before each one. I don’t know where this cruel hazing originated, only that it will kill her.