In my dream, rushed talk.

In my dream I need to get them to fill out the survey, all of its many pages. It is impossible to slip though the huge musical about the Gilded Age, because of the constantly revolving scenery and elaborate numbers: every thing that looks like a seat ends up being on stage.

In my dream it darkens and warms.

In my dream I’m walking the dog that replaced Monte across the street in the drizzle.

In my dream we’re tumbled together and the names change and we’re not frightened.

In my dream she lifts a small black fungus: heart shaped. Construction continues.

In my dream they mention how they like something “silly and middle of the road like rosé”. “Oh.. that’s me” I say, accidentally dumping an iced glass of rosé over the desk and speakers.

In my dream he’s nearby.

In my dream no more delay: it is time to walk the miniatures of the five lofts I’ve been hired to build back across the fields.

In my dream it’s blown but I am in joy.

In my dream the buildings in the courtyard are close together and brightly gelatinous.