In my dream there are grassy streets.

In my dream I’m interviewing Joey Ramone over the phone while I shop through a flea market. There is a great tin lunchbox on the crowded table under the train tracks.

In my dream there is a mobile shed with rounded corners and a white insignia painted on the side.

In my dream they are moving through woods and streets. They are bent and flowery.

In my dream there are three steps but the third never arrives. The apartment is full of sex.

In my dream the kaleidoscoping letters are part of the casting call. I slide out of the apartment and watch him pack a few moving boxes out in the tall yellow grass.

In my dream the night is beautiful but they can’t hear me when I try to tell them that the building they are on the roof of is actually on fire, green flames curling around the concrete.

In my dream the thing in my hands is moving and part of the background.

In my dream: some hope of repair.

In my dream the painted tin is essential to understanding him. We pass it back and forth.

In my dream I’m reaching through the weeds while I talk to him.

In my dream I’m repatriating batches of creatures around my new LA studio. The black crates that they are confined in slide down the hilly streets, splintering in the sunlight. Many of these animals are dangerous or at least chaotic. This isn’t a crisis yet.

In my dream I clamber over to the rope bridge so that we can make our way to the ground.

In my dream a railing disappears into the water.

In my dream I am choosing between four plates of different stews. Each is partially eaten. This has happened every day.

In my dream I’m combing the crowded shelves and bins of the Chinese grocery for dinner ingredients: bundles of greens, two jars of sauces, a cellophane bag of dried mushrooms and lilies. I know to avoid the noodles.

In my dream the dull light picks out the struts of the metal table. No one else is there.