I dream about exploring old buildings in new cities, about stumbling into ancient blown-glass washrooms with damp fossil-studded marble and tubes of fluted glass in all colors mimicking the bubbling flow of fountains. Each commode is a blue-green-gold glass lily.
I dream about big white dogs, some curly-coated some smooth, fawning over my attention in dark porch parties of strangers.
I dream that they find out I killed my (stranger) roommate because I found her too annoying; "it just happened." I sprint to the cathedral for sanctuary and almost trip over women in long maroon robes wailing and dragging themselves across the threshold of the chapel.