In my dream it’s dark on the worn out club and around the walls hang sketches from the public service apology tour of the wastrel son of an oligarch. A blonde woman excitedly talks about redecorating the place with mirrors. A lawyer hangs up his phone and drowns himself in a cask of piss.

In my dream I am the first to crawl under the picnic table to avoid the attacks.

In my dream I pet a fox terrier.

In my dream I am eating waffles and apple sauce.

In my dream we are taking a bus down to a protest. When we get there we have to line up according to a system of color coded shields painted on the curb.

In my dream I double back for food.

In my dream I am walking uptown through the night on Sixth Avenue. I carry a sheet of installation foam and every time I look behind myself, it seems that all of the power has gone out, all of downtown unlit. The Dairy Queen on Twenty -third street has free samples of “nut fries”.

In my dream I return to the loft to pack for my trip only to find that they’ve thrown out a bunch of my stuff, including the antique portable hi-fi that I had organized everything around.

In my dream there is a glade.

In my dream we are reviving each party member as a matter of course. The grass is still.

In my dream I am holding hexagonal tubes.

In my dream I’ve compiled all of my junk mail into a book called “Nayland Blake Vs The World”. I’m carrying a printout of it around the building with me . I’ve left my shoes on the fourth floor in my studio. The elevator floor is wet.