In my dream: ragged chunks of fire breath in her heads.

In my dream the X-ray shows the gold bar to be solid, with no interior chamber.

In my dream: flashes of ceremony on a round game platter.

In my dream I wander past the brightly lit, trashy shoe stores of the Tenderloin, protecting my phone and trying to photograph the shredded street art.

In my dream it’s time to assemble my newest design: adorable modular backpacks.

In my dream I am collecting up and packing the unclaimed art from the year to take back home and make into something else.

In my dream I’m stuck at the encore part of a show by an electro pop band of middling pretension when a security goon shows up at my seat and tosses an iPad at me that supposedly contains evidence of me “smoking downstairs”. It’s a lie, but I dislike the music so much I’m fine with being thrown out.

In my dream I drift through the house playing guitar in accompaniment to the surviving First Ladies and their children as they sing some mildly uplifting pop song of remembrance. The light is diffused all through the streets of the German town when the festival is being held.

In my dream I do close-up magic for Orson Welles while I mock the agents who are following me. I’m more worried about messing up the trick than being arrested.

In my dream there are three kinds of little houses: constructed of paper, poured silicone and cast resin. We are stuck cleaning the shit out of Suzy Menkes’s sweater.