In my dream my humiliation has led me to a flirtatious battle of wits with a foppish aristocrat as he dresses: “And when you are a child? Absolutely no one likes you.” He slips his gloves on.

In my dream Nikki Minaj hands me her phone so I can look something up for her. It is absurdly small and flexible, like a piece of leather.

In my dream I head up to the top floor in an old  elevator to find the ramshackle studio of an artist. I envy his weathered desk, the lumpy rich work he has scattered around the dim room. As we talk, I start to love him.

In my dream: sorting in a hallway.

In my dream the museum’s new wings are barely lit and my eyes have become so bad that I stumble through the exhibits, calling for help as a man howls and runs through the rooms of fossils and brocade.

In my dream a round of checking through all of the club’s lockers reveals nothing: I shouldn’t have shoved my video camera into a duffle and then put it in a locker and walked off yesterday.

In my dream there is one sentence in the dark: “We are a typical two-inch davenport:everyone dislikes us.”

In my dream my bottom teeth are unaligned and small groups of rats are debating whether or not to eat humans.

In my dream he hands me a folded bunch of new yellow bills. At least a third of them feel fake.

In my dream the play week is wrapping up and I feel replete. As I swim up to the surface of the pool I see one of our alligators hit the other one over the head with a bucket.

In my dream I hold a risograph book of sketches in olive and black. I scan the essay in the back, trying to determine whether or not the artist is queer, knowing I’ll be disappointed if they aren’t.