In my dream I clamber around a spindly structure, ten stories up, so that I can photograph his iced coffee. Later a search for a bathroom on the ground leads to singing “Respect Yourself” with a joyful guitar player on the street.

In my dream the children begin to wash the blood off.

In my dream it is my first night taking over for Ed McMahon on The Tonight Show. Earlier, I rode to work on the uptown ferry, slightly amused by other people’s sleepy roommate conflicts.

In my dream Oscar Wilde unfolds himself from the cloak room and announces what we all know: that he is a chef.

In my dream, we are lying down. The woods are sparse.

In my dream the streets are filled with parades and gender war.

In my dream it is only after I try to photograph the used clothing warehouse that I discover that all three of my phones have been stolen, swapped with items that look like them but are flimsy stacks of components  that only play Russian video, or won’t turn on at all. I panic: my bank account is probably gone. I have no way to check.

In my dream a large family arrives to rent the next apartment for the weekend. On the way in, a young man knocks a rack of brightly colored key chains to the floor. I loudly try to shame him into cleaning them up while he tries to slip away.

In my dream the yellowing cardboard corners are part of the tallying.

In my dream the guitar’s body is covered in tanned, inscribed hide.