In my dream the fight is against an invasive black tendrilled fungus and a cyborg. I pack my things after a final day of work and joke about an English therapist with her daughter while we walk in the dark.

In my dream I am driving through the snow shower, rushing across the airfield so that I can catch a plane. Later I carry amputated arms across the road.

In my dream the books stack inside each other.

In my dream the end is coming and before we leave I am going through my books to find some blank sketchbooks . Rain begins. The intersections empty.

In my dream the complex is dark and sprawling and filled with sexual activity of all kinds. Most people are naked as they cruise through the aging plaster rooms stocked with cast off furniture.

In my dream we are gathered to kill someone named Davos.

In my dream a square appears around them, one by one, like they are suspects.

In my dream there is muted betrayal.

In my dream I’m on the second floor landing annoyed that the stairs down have been collapsed once again and someone has fallen to the first floor. It’s thoughtless, has management just forgotten that people use these?

In my dream we are changing things over for the second part of her show at the cafe even though the patrons are already starting to distract each other.

In my dream I’m attending the wedding of Dan Savage at his house. We are stuck at tables that crowd the living room. When the food comes out ,it’s high end versions of fair food: popcorn and cotton candy cake, fried things, so I have to decline it all. The tone among the guests is queeny and cozy. My kaftan looks good.

In my dream we are all leaving and my remaining things are scattered across a few of the bunks that line the walls.

In my dream I end up escorting her through the crowded, run-down fish market, past low-key harassment, like shrimp shells arranged into swastikas on the chipped counters. The wall tanks have electric fish and in a tray of ice, blob fish have been kept alive by being encased in wax.

In my dream it’s rectangular but it’s not a sign.

In my dream we are heading west on Santa Monica in the early evening, with barely anyone else on the darkened street. I’m in the passenger seat and for the first time I’m conscious of the desire to be behind the wheel in  Los Angeles.

In my dream I’m finally in the town house where he has lived for years: the ceilings are high, the rooms are big and dim and each has an altar made of piled plaster and shimmering mica . Another resident compliments my hair. I’ve waited to be here for so long.

In my dream I crawl, climb and slip through the dark trees and buildings, killing the panicked people who hunt me. I use my hands, it takes time, and I don’t stop.