In my dream I am scanning BlueSky, looking to find my name in someone else’s posts.

In my dream the rooms are regularly spaced.

In my dream I examine a wax box bolted into the ceiling: the first piece of a new show. Then B tells me how excited he is at the prospect of me working in series again.

In my dream I visit a magic oriented friend who has taken  D.V. under her wing. When I mention his name, she sighs luxuriously and says “Ah! What an ice cream!”

In my dream I’m trying to introduce a visiting scholar to our commune’s technician because I think that her droning electronic instruments will sound great with the room size reed instrument the technician has built. They are also wry, vaguely Nordic lesbians, and I’m trying to fix them up.

In my dream tracing the outer edge of a box increases its resolution in the game.

In my dream I’ve gathered a handful of cheap bits at the loft store that sells yardage and toys. No matter who I talk to, I can’t check out and finally I understand that they think I’m shoplifting. Hours go by. I’ve turned out my pockets so they can see all I have.

In my dream the store’s new decor is high density foam in bursts of red and orange, formed into mushroom shapes. We lounge on the caps and wait for Yoko Ono to arrive.

In my dream the boards are piled up from the ground floor, making a kind of slide that I can scoot down to exit the townhouse.

In my dream, green streets shuttered against the wet night.