I've returned to dreaming things. Mysterious things that I can't put together in the mornings. It's the last couple nights, after no-dreams for a while. I wake up tired, it having been a bit like this, only with fast driving, talking babies, poison... I don't know what else -- I don't remember.
���� My confusion on Tuesday about it being Sunday was definitely the result of a dream -- all I know about it was big newspaper pages folding over each other to form a triangularish cone, into which I would lean deeply for a close-up of dry, inky, texturey paper.
���� The image recurred throughout that day, making it one of those days where your personhood gets re-drawn as mathematical phenomena -- layers of patterns and processes that exist and recur simply because they work. The way viruses do.

���� I'd like to see wooden head-sculptures of the President and his Cabinet, each approximately basketball-sized and highly-polished, kind of like what this guy does. There would be a little square hole in each, maybe at the temple; and if you looked in you could see a brightly-lit, shiny, wood-walled, spherical paradise in which little, wooden Americans walked up and down staircases and sat on swings. After you looked at the exhibition you would move on to the next room, where, if you were a girl, the President would kiss you.


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