In my dream I walk down, around and through. I fold it until it’s full.

In my dream our plot relies on deploying a new super-abrasive water charged with “citrus husks”. We discuss this under our breaths as we move through the levels of the corporate offices, past the water chamber and out towards the orchards. The time is coming and our conspiracy carries an erotic charge.

In my dream: stacked tables and optimism.

In my dream the plastic  clips are empty and ready for new flyers, but that will happen after the song finishes.

In my dream the tiny stages in the corners of the room are a point of pride: I’ve made them well.

In my dream the time is quickly coming when I will have to take my seat in a shaky box ten stories in the air and land a jet by remote control, even though I have barely practiced.

In my dream I pack away all the stuff I’ve collected over the trip, including the creased lps and the plaque of quilted yellow bullets. I have thoughts about the plot of the novel.

In my dream I walk through the old shopping district of Philadelphia, with arcades crammed with men’s wear shops and tiled walls with signs forbidding public sex. Each street alternates between waves of shoppers and scattered unhoused men.

In my dream it’s the middle questionnaire.

In my dream there are twice as many students in the classroom than at the beginning of the session; an impossible number. Their casual chatter drowns out my attempts to get their attention and one young person is circulating from group to group whispering about how the staff is resigning.

In my dream they all float in the underpass: the paired iridescent objects, waiting to be selected.

In my dream three heads line up at the back of the brown room.