In my dream the other world is just that little bit softer and more comforting: a bunch of us are in the rear section of the theatre where I plan to sleep tucked into three velvet seats. The food is good and when I go to grab a movie poster off of the wall, my guide hands it to me, already rolled up.

In my dream I’m teaching a room full of students how to hang work while one tries to demonstrate how far beyond this particular lesson they are by rolling their eyes and scoffing.

In my dream he’s heading back to England and I’m almost in tears.

In my dream the red indicates a closing circle.

In my dream M staffs the counter in the dim antique shop. One of the crowded trays holds a gaudy red fountain pen and a straight razor shaped like a woman’s leg, for shaving moustaches.

In my dream it’s early evening and the building is rounded.

In my dream, disgusted with the arrival of several bratty younger wizards, I climb the stairs through the building, turning until I push onto the roof where clusters of people of color talk nervously. I gather the cardboard shields and think about the office.

In my dream it’s dark on the worn out club and around the walls hang sketches from the public service apology tour of the wastrel son of an oligarch. A blonde woman excitedly talks about redecorating the place with mirrors. A lawyer hangs up his phone and drowns himself in a cask of piss.

In my dream I am the first to crawl under the picnic table to avoid the attacks.

In my dream I pet a fox terrier.

In my dream I am eating waffles and apple sauce.

In my dream we are taking a bus down to a protest. When we get there we have to line up according to a system of color coded shields painted on the curb.