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.

In my dream there is one constant through the long night of wet street fights, department store wandering and comic picking: the hunt for slabs of sticky, succulent char siu in an aged yellow shop.

In my dream the rangers handle any situation but a severed cord dangles in the water.

In my dream that shading of the oval with the colored pencil is meant to be lighthearted.