In my dream, there are more flowers than we need. The buzzing won’t stop when we tilt our heads.

In my dream we are crowded around the back of the car, watching results, walking, waiting, concerned about the air.

In my dream I compare the sizes of octagonal bedsprings because the report is due.

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.