In my dream I’m offended by her presumption about teaching me “Performance in your culture, from the West Side”. I’m piling up objections in my head while we roll around.

In my dream picking a pink flail.

In my dream there is a small bit of fencing.

In my dream the streets are so steep that there is no way down from the cast concrete buttress of the overpass. He and his three kids are stranded.

In my dream he surprises me with his hunger; eagerly grinding on my thigh until he announces there’s blood and pushes me away. The door to the office is painted on, yellow and childlike and his acolytes attend him there learning that we all are in a simulation as a kind of therapy.

In my dream there used to be a prize.

In my dream stuff is landing from above so we put them nose to nose in the part of the floor where the walls are carpeted carmel and where we had breakfast: what we call the Pudding Maze. They’re happy to see each other because they are infants.

In my dream the top floor slopes upward to a shimmering blue square: frightening, but that’s where we will find breakfast. The trays are back at the beginning.

In my dream a rough white fabric.

In my dream the survivors roll on the ground and very little of the water that was in the bus remains.