In my dream my travel has brought me to downtown Manila where the thrill of being in a new country mixes with confusion and anxiety. The wide streets and gold edged, glassed lobbies glow in the early evening night. I need to book a flight.

In my dream I ask the smug white family across from me “Who was the last black person you’ve spoken to who wasn’t a service person or a government official?” Their inability to answer proves my point. Later I am punching and biting them.

In my dream I want the acid yellow over dyed duffle bag from Carhartt as soon as I see them on the fifth floor of Macy’s.

In my dream the setting sun lights up the heavily costumed stilt walkers as they dance through the South of Market parking lots, their paper streamers shaking and swirling. I can’t see their faces.

In my dream we are debating the resolution even as we stroll down the graffiti covered street towards the meeting room.

In my dream we name the ceramic sculpture “Father with a Conscience” and watch as it comes down the ramp.

In my dream I am about to administer my personality tests.

In my dream my head and arm are wedged in a black box.

In my dream my attention keeps returning to a corpse in the midst of piles of paper.

In my dream I keep returning to the black structure’s  looming, crenellated surface.

In my dream I’m excited to see my high school art teacher again but embarrassed because after all the years I haven’t returned the set of keys I have to her apartment. We trade COVID stories in the midtown restaurant when her husband shows up and wants to fight me. He’s ludicrous. I talk him out of it.