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.

In my dream a teen has a crouching figure molded out of shit, that he drags around in a cart and insists on caressing. We can’t persuade him to give it up.

In my dream I trudge through downtown.