In my dream I’m stuck at the encore part of a show by an electro pop band of middling pretension when a security goon shows up at my seat and tosses an iPad at me that supposedly contains evidence of me “smoking downstairs”. It’s a lie, but I dislike the music so much I’m fine with being thrown out.

In my dream I drift through the house playing guitar in accompaniment to the surviving First Ladies and their children as they sing some mildly uplifting pop song of remembrance. The light is diffused all through the streets of the German town when the festival is being held.

In my dream I do close-up magic for Orson Welles while I mock the agents who are following me. I’m more worried about messing up the trick than being arrested.

In my dream there are three kinds of little houses: constructed of paper, poured silicone and cast resin. We are stuck cleaning the shit out of Suzy Menkes’s sweater.

In my dream I look at the back of the slipcase and think “non-binary spaceship” as my eyes pass over the picture of the slightly smug alien  and their fussy pompadour.

In my dream the branching, multi fingered growth that sprouted from his head has toppled him over, pinning him to the floor. Reddened, the tips slowly wave back and forth.