In my dream, right when I think “At least it’s not a row of books again” it is.

In my dream it’s barely visible with a sound like escaping gas.

In my dream a pursuer: brutal, deranging, tearing through buildings, trees, everything to get to me.

In my dream each disc freezes an increasingly large area in a different style. I walk up and down the row of them, undecided.

In my dream drawing on the cover of a vellum bound book.

In my dream I lift the board to reveal what’s been growing underneath: gently glowing fiddlehead ferns.

In my dream I cannot find the argument that will shame the adolescent boy who carelessly kicks over the stuff I’m looking at.

In my dream my arms are barely connected to my shoulders.

In my dream their blackened legs move slowly.

In my dream our options are lined up and wet.