In my dream the red indicates a closing circle.

In my dream M staffs the counter in the dim antique shop. One of the crowded trays holds a gaudy red fountain pen and a straight razor shaped like a woman’s leg, for shaving moustaches.

In my dream it’s early evening and the building is rounded.

In my dream, disgusted with the arrival of several bratty younger wizards, I climb the stairs through the building, turning until I push onto the roof where clusters of people of color talk nervously. I gather the cardboard shields and think about the office.

In my dream it’s dark on the worn out club and around the walls hang sketches from the public service apology tour of the wastrel son of an oligarch. A blonde woman excitedly talks about redecorating the place with mirrors. A lawyer hangs up his phone and drowns himself in a cask of piss.

In my dream I am the first to crawl under the picnic table to avoid the attacks.

In my dream I pet a fox terrier.

In my dream I am eating waffles and apple sauce.

In my dream we are taking a bus down to a protest. When we get there we have to line up according to a system of color coded shields painted on the curb.

In my dream I double back for food.

In my dream I am walking uptown through the night on Sixth Avenue. I carry a sheet of installation foam and every time I look behind myself, it seems that all of the power has gone out, all of downtown unlit. The Dairy Queen on Twenty -third street has free samples of “nut fries”.

In my dream I return to the loft to pack for my trip only to find that they’ve thrown out a bunch of my stuff, including the antique portable hi-fi that I had organized everything around.