In my dream  a small group turns away.

In my dream we cross the barriers into the plaza. The carbonation in the kombucha pushes the glass stopper out of the bottle. I’m trying to find a rubber stopper.

In my dream those bulbous new white SUVs are in the gas station lot. Just as I try to get the doors closed and everything rounded up in our house, a feral cat slips in, dark and tagged, so now I’m chasing it slowly and trying to coax it into a blanket. I don’t want to touch it.

In my dream the faces change slightly.

In my dream the showers built into the old refrigerators have too many bugs so I make my way back through the basement looking at all the sanded and polished wooden scraps, thinking about how I need to incorporate them in my work.

In my dream I start to find the portfolios stuffed with my work after R had told me that they were all gone, thrown out over the summer. My corn cob pipe collection is hung from a drying rack below them, I glimpse some of my zines and sketches.

In my dream wooden slats line the walls. The score is toted up while balls get tossed at the hole.bthebelevator lurches. A sign is decoded: the invasion is starting on May 5.

In my dream we have lost the community link a day early, as we prepare to depart. The last couple of us walk back and forth attempting to exchange the information that will keep us in touch. Later, this is recounted in a series of orange comic panels next to the shop with the dining counter.

In my we talk gently. My arm is uncovered.

In my dream we’ve been pushing into the mound before it illuminates. I turn away into the louder discussion and buy some pastry.