In my dream the next room has a pile of discarded vintage signs from the surrounding offices and facades. I scoop them up.

In my dream I want to travel west for an additional few days, even though I have no place to stay: the tall, staggered streets are like a canyon, and I have the idea to fill them with paintings on wires.

In my dream the plaza is smooth, the air thick.

In my dream I’m in J’s loft which is bustling with construction baffluence and new work being made. I am trying to connect around some tea I suggest that try, which sounds feeble and foolish in the face of everything going on.

In my dream, the feeling of an edge being stripped off.

In my dream I am trying to run a community meeting where more and more people are signing up maliciously to speak as we go around the room.

In my dream Manila Luzon lounges in our corral in Times Square talking about the time she acted alongside Clarence Williams the Third while lights flash in the warm night. I walk away and the further I go, the more layers of muck accrue to my bare feet until I am searching for some vendor that sells Crocs and some way to hose them down.

In my dream V brings a rare Ice Pine sapling to the lab where D has been propagating them after the tragedy of losing a seed.

In my dream no image remains but one of rounded shadow.

In my dream I’m absorbed in painting the model rocket ship, dry brushing rusty highlights over the surface. Then the tentacle packs inside.

In my dream the hallway is cool in the twilight.

In my dream, churning.