In my dream I’m brought before a monstrous Hollywood fixer who proposes slicing one of my fingers because I have breached some part of my contract. I’m terrified at first, but become more and more belligerent, fighting him with brass lamps and eventually a gun I grab from him.

In my dream we split the rough wood column revealing its Copenhagen Blue interior. On my next visit I look frantically for the blue beam because it houses the spirit of the community’s leader.

In my dream I guide the large animal through the clay covered rooms by holding onto its baggy, reptilian skin, hoping it won’t get away from me and fight with the dogs in the area.

In my dream the bits of flag stay inside the jar. I’m not any older.

In my dream the air ripples and she has figured out how to smile and get the party together.

In my dream she wants to cut it down to sixteen again across her chest.

In my dream it’s frayed and revolving.

In my dream we mold the clay and dip the bottles matching the stripes to specific DNA over and over. The actress is blankly modest but she has stolen the work of a local artist and thus the right to their studio. By the end I’ve forgotten how the process works and am losing my place in line.

In my dream the Christmas retail displays at Lincoln Center lead me to a  wan teenage architecture student trying to insinuate themselves into a musical about Japan.

In my dream the old notebooks suggest new plans.