In my dream the toy train track is crowded and pink. When I pick up the bouquet the wires jab through the cellophane before I can hand it off.

In my dream there is a gentle green slope where foggy white squares hover.

In my dream the acid green y-fronts need explaining.

In my dream I try to keep track of our last needle and there’s by taking a few short stitches with it through the sheer curtain.

In my dream as I climb the upended deck I think about what a clever film maker Michael Bay is, taking time in the midst of this tense boat sequence to include a shot of a cute pangolin rolling in the street. Later we wait for the bombs to pull the oxygen from the air around us.

In my dream I have to pay attention to the fluctuations of the golden face.

In my dream the consolidation of the art world continues: walking through a blocks-long mega gallery, I meet five different women friends who have been hired there in various capacities. Each is tidy and glad of a job, part of a swarm of activity. The show features hundreds of antique traveling trunks.

In my dream I feel the muted shuffling of the rooms possibilities.

In my dream two young men push their way into the back room of the shop where I work, ostensibly for water. Their manner touches on violence and I resent having to give them no cause to erupt.

In my dream the surfaces of the city are curdled with grit.