In my dream Oscar Wilde unfolds himself from the cloak room and announces what we all know: that he is a chef.

In my dream, we are lying down. The woods are sparse.

In my dream the streets are filled with parades and gender war.

In my dream it is only after I try to photograph the used clothing warehouse that I discover that all three of my phones have been stolen, swapped with items that look like them but are flimsy stacks of components  that only play Russian video, or won’t turn on at all. I panic: my bank account is probably gone. I have no way to check.

In my dream a large family arrives to rent the next apartment for the weekend. On the way in, a young man knocks a rack of brightly colored key chains to the floor. I loudly try to shame him into cleaning them up while he tries to slip away.

In my dream the yellowing cardboard corners are part of the tallying.

In my dream the guitar’s body is covered in tanned, inscribed hide.

In my dream the sign’s paint runs across the snow.

In my dream the path outside of the cabin is lined with the unresting dead. We are inside dipping in and out of sleep, getting ready to fuck. After finding my third flea jumping around on our bodies, I begin to suspect that J has been sneaking them in to irritate us.

In my dream I’ve clawed it together.