In my dream beyond the pastrami place in the station’s food court is the place with the towering cakes shaped in the threefold faces of pagan gods that surround the windows. They are like pillars soaked in rum.

In my dream, while we hang out at the station, I start to improvise a jokey musical about being in a cult: “I don’t like mangos, they can go away, but I love seeing YOU every day, hey hey hey”

In my dream J and I have stolen from smugglers who now want us dead. There are few places to hide in the house. I flatten myself against a wall. There is no taking this back. The only possible escape is traveling to Nigeria, acting the feckless retired academic.

In my dream it’s past the day to leave and I have to apologize to the host’s other roommates in the craft store across the street. They hand me a paper bag with the stuff that’s left, but I know my phone isn’t in it.

In my dream he won’t watch the dog when I leave and he doesn’t like it when I teasingly compliment his partner even though we’ve been fucking for years.