In my dream saris behind wooden dowels. Rounds bounce.

In my dream my vertigo makes me crawl among the star shaped wooden platforms after I glimpse the ground far far below.

In my dream custard in a metal syringe stands in for a T shot. We’re writing an article about something that requires me to line it up in the mirror and there are jokes about breakfast.

In my dream threaded red lights fill each segment of the trip in a white map with a small trench.

In my dream a slanting white wall, retribution and bombs across the rooftops. Neon, cozy at last.

In my dream the walls of Wentworth-by-the-Sea’s abandoned downtown streets have been etched with elaborate bondage scenes.

In my dream picking between HotWheels.

In my dream it’s rounded outdoors.

In my dream there is a pleasure of being close to the ground, digging watch batteries and beads out of two crevices and a pleasure in knowing that I am plump and femme when comparing notes on hot butches with H.

In my dream I doze off and wake up and try to interject my cynical comment into a conversation only to find that the conversation is being recorded as part of a podcast. I am embarrassed and try to let those around me know by writing it down but no pen works.

In my dream affectionate antiques give me satisfaction.

In my dream we go in and see the apartments with the dogs.