I dreamed about torture.

I dreamed about deadlines.

I dreamed about moving to a new house (again).
I dreamed it was an old apartment.
No, it was the third floor of a mansion.
It was an enormous secret wing of my uncle’s house.
It was a treehouse.
I was sleeping in my car.

I dreamed I was in a band. I wasn’t prepared.
It was Bruce Springsteen’s band.
No, it was Cat Power.
It was my own band.

It wasn’t a band. It was a play.
It was Shakespeare.
It was Wilde.
It was Ibsen.

I wasn’t prepared.

I dreamed you didn’t come home last night.
I called you but there was no answer.
I dreamed I was awake all night, worrying.
At dawn I reached for the phone, which was covered in spaghetti sauce.
Then I remembered.
We’re not married any more. You don’t live here. You’re all right.
I’m all right.

Everything’s all right.
Everything’s all right.
Everything’s all right.