In my dream it’s in the back of a cluttered music shop on a shelf: a hand made tarot deck with two sets of cards: one that is standard rectangles and one that is cut into a self portrait silhouette of its maker. All the cards are laminated silk, vividly painted. I speculate about the woman who created them while gathering them up to take home.

In my dream the banged-together metal container rests in my arms.

In my dream it’s early morning and I’m making my way through midtown with only an empty cereal box to preserve my modesty. Luckily, department stores have just opened and the one I enter is hosting a celebration of a young designer who loves “superchubs” and dresses them in multilayered maribu suits and bulbus crochet body stockings. Three floors up is model casting. I want these clothes, want to be in them.

In my dream we sneak back into the apartment on 94th below West End, the one I’ve dreamt of many times as my perfect place. People are moving out and I flatter the landlord, trying to find out the rent.

In my dream he tells me that the email request I sent out has provoked 1.6 million responses.

In my dream I head off to the movie theaters in the basement on Third Avenue and East 6th Street, despite thinking that every one of these brick buildings could pancake. Eventually the whole scene has become a “Fulci film, starring Jan Michael Vincent” as ghouls devour each other.

In my dream I slip on the vintage gold platforms in time to shop the antiques. Even though one is a little split, I love what they do for my outfit.

In my dream we are in a quiet, sophisticated and somewhat downbeat Casper cartoon from the 1940’s: a sideshow of rag-tag ghosts who wryly go about their day.