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.

In my dream I’ll fly back to London from Istanbul tomorrow, so I do some quick shopping in the warehouses: trying to find a knee length gingham shirt that fits leads me to a rack of over printed jeans in searing colors. I feel smug.