In my dream we are researching the past of the dusty toy store, crawling across the upper shelves, thinking about how it looked in the 40’s. A young woman keeps jumping towards the ceiling in the dim light, trying to slap price tags on balloons with a gun.

In my dream Suzanne and I are walking back through downtown from the last session of the conference. She compliments the drawings in my sketchbook, even as she wanders towards the auto parts shop.

In my dream I am finally inside of Sleep No More and a performer is explaining a mail skirt of pressed bronze discs.

In my dream I see a cracked, yellowed wall.

In my dream I clamber through the hatch on the second floor of the old victorian on Fillmore Street. I’m packing to leave and regretting that I could never afford a place like this.

In my dream they own a stacked wooden record rack.

In my dream the crimped black paper cube is passed from hand to hand.

In my dream I down a pint of beer: the first two gulps are crisp like a pilsner but then it quickly turns thick and honeyed against my tongue.

In my dream we ask if the person currently in the role is going to continue when the show leaves previews. The response is that the doors of the cargo elevator close in silence.

In my dream I turn the box in my hands over and over, remembering each time that the contents are blue and pink.