In my dream I’m in the back seat of an suv and as my friends, who are on the outside arrive to tell me good news just as the car begins to roll forward, gradually accelerating while they pull at the doors. The whole thing is heading for the back of a bus.

In my dream I am in darkness. Things slip past me.

In my dream I grab at the stopper in the drain and pull the foot long clump of hair and soap from deep inside it. It feels satisfying to yank it free.

In my dream my outfit crackles. It’s for work, which is delayed.

In my dream I’ve returned and there’s a child behind the building.

In my dream there is a paper fused to itself, clutched in a hand.

In my dream a friend is writing reviews of science fiction stories for a few dollars a pop. I tell someone not to scoff at any income, even amounts that small.

In my dream some students are recording a DIY version of an album by Brian Eno. As part of it they have painted over the cabinets of their group kitchen provoking the ire of campus security. I’m trying to protect them by pretending that it is part of an assignment for my class, but it’s not really working.

In my dream I feel the ease of the exchange across a bowl of space.

In my dream I walk past the cars, parked in formation with sculpted loaves of bread across their hoods. One looks like two humans joined at the head. I know that later in the scene it will come to life in front of the camera. I hurry to get out of the shot.

In my dream the hand on my head pushes me down. It’s evening. Everything turns.

In my dream I conceive of a piece: a wedge shelf where the bottom section is a paper bag coated in slip and fired and the top surface is a piece of cardboard painted with wood grain. The whole thing is hung on the wall inverted.

In my dream there is a rounded path and a quiet dispute. My feet are leaving the ground.

In my dream the route through the side street is grassy and I return to the lobby where a simple syth line provides the soundtrack to a sci-fi story from the seventies about a feminist commune.

In my dream the bike has fat wheels.

In my dream their condescension makes me climb their bodies and smash their sneering heads into the tiled walls of the shop.

In my dream the street fair is crowded so I walk around the outskirts. A young man sidles up to me, flirting. I warn him off.

In my dream there is pushing.

In my dream I finally turn up Amsterdam avenue and start walking through the summer air to see what’s new in an independent bookstore. There’s stuff for sale on the street, including an olive green felted hat with bumps that look like cat ears. Another look and it turns out to be a muff and it’s felting is too eaten away to work. I pass it by.

In my dream she still has the animal in her arms.