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.

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.