In my dream we are all trying to sing it.

In my dream I am putting the final touches on a diaristic set of instructions across a stretched canvas.

In my dream the first day of school means modular drawing assignments across the floors and S getting more feverish while she tries to organize something for me. I bark “You don’t get it” at the two other people in bed.

In my dream Bob Mould has a new band and released a song in his buzzer pop mode, that contains “Summer” in the chorus. I hear it as I try to buy a cigar in the theater and even later when it comes to me that I’m dreaming and thus I’m the one who made that song.

In my dream there was a lot and under it ran happiness it seemed until it dissolved.

In my dream I’ve squeezed into the antique stall and begun picking out the home made dice: vaguely cubical chunks of unfinished wood with numbers written on the sides in pencil. I’ve already decided that 7.95 for a small black cat plaque is way too much.

In my dream a tiny order of fried chicken repeatedly brings us together.

In my dream we’re beneath the arch and joking about rhythm when I ask him about taking the cane. “Only from Zorn” he says.

In my dream an exchange is fine.

In my dream thin yellow in the analysis.

In my dream the red of Mr Blobby’s spots and the angled tail light on the fin of some 50’s Volvo.