In my dream we float down to the swampy earth while we argue.

In my dream there is a rectangular area of superimposed unreality hovering at head height. It is my turn to do some matchmaking.

In my dream there is a restless negotiation in the grass. I feel wind, but not on my face.

In my dream she is proposing that I share her apartment, living in a short corridor carved out of her living room.

In my dream I step into the elevator with him, and he winds up and spits on my suit. The elevator is slow.

In my dream he is an influencer with a blazer and a carefully painted door.

In my dream the haunting begins when we gather in a conference center in San Francisco’s Japan Town. We leave, and something follows us.

In my dream the poker game is happening in a wood paneled room in the east 60’s, a setting both luxurious and boring. One of my fellow students who is deaf and mute hands me a written response to my essay and I’m ashamed that all I know how to sign is a fumbling “thank you” in response.

In my dream I find three light-up display signs for CDs dumped behind an old cabinet of mine.

In my dream I glide out of the dark apartment onto the wide balsony, trailing my fingers through the night’s piled up snow. In my hand a cluster of black flecks resolve into tiny metal leaves, tinkling as I crush them together. A vote is happening.

In my dream a sweaty man picks a gold ingot out of the debris on the church’s floor and pockets it. “Nothing bad can possibly come of that” I say, and that phrase becomes the refrain of the song that runs under our group’s interactions from then on.

In my dream thesec0nd he turns to leave I turn to her, hoping to sing a duet that blends :The Trolly Song: and “Carol of the Bells”. Then I fish  a bolt out of my chest.

In my dream I fold it down.

In my dream the final hours of San Francisco Halloween stretch out in possibility and dawning light. I hike up my skirt.