In my dream I can see crumpled red puffballs through the gap.

In my dream the dark cardigan barely covers my lace bodysuit, so I have to find some place where I can at least buy a skirt.

In my dream he holds the square mirror up behind his head and with the palm trees it gives the effect of a late seventies album cover.

In my dream the hanging glass beads are indicators of personality, the red jacket stands for career.

In my dream my hair is bushy so Santa jokes.

In my dream R offers me cocaine in candy floss form. I’m worried for him.

In my dream an internal narrator keeps urging a “fecal fling” which means picking up a shit covered stick and chucking it across the room as if that is the only solution. And then afterwards washing my right hand with pumice soap.

In my dream I see him entrance a young woman and know he must be stopped: the mayor. I hustle him into the back room and shove his head into the deep tray of caviar. But his self control somehow keeps me from drowning him no matter how long I hold his head under.

In my dream this is a turning away that releases my face.

In my dream Bjork’s face folds as she turns to the camera and whispers “It’s time for lemons…allll of the lemons.” But so much more had just happened.

In my dream we defend a shop by explaining it’s built around fluffiness and naps. There is an enormously fat german shepherd. We’re on the floor.