In my dream Dirk Bogart has posed for the ultimate English pin-up : pallid, scrawny and embarrassed. Later I’m pissing blood.

In my dream I tell the German monk in my video game “I’m not interested in dealing with dragons now”. Seconds later, a spherical clown pops between the claws of the black dragon wrapped around the Manhattan bridge and bounces down two silk platforms.

In my dream I want to add more pieces to my evaluations, even though only the initial group counts. I align their edges.

In my dream the steam ship has a wooden laundry platform.

In my dream I wipe down the square as we head for the exit.

In my dream cops in suits search the yard a bit.

In my dream the next room has a pile of discarded vintage signs from the surrounding offices and facades. I scoop them up.

In my dream I want to travel west for an additional few days, even though I have no place to stay: the tall, staggered streets are like a canyon, and I have the idea to fill them with paintings on wires.

In my dream the plaza is smooth, the air thick.

In my dream I’m in J’s loft which is bustling with construction baffluence and new work being made. I am trying to connect around some tea I suggest that try, which sounds feeble and foolish in the face of everything going on.

In my dream, the feeling of an edge being stripped off.