Brooklyn, August '26
A few dreams a man said to never write about because no one cares about dreams.
Last night, I dreamt about a house in the hills. Some place I had never been. California, I think, it had to be. My friends were there, and we made bizarre half, but only half, naked photos.
The night before, I dreamt about traipsing through the city to parties. Sort of sideways all the time. Joined on a bottle-filled bodega down the street from me, except such a place does not exist. That street is anonymous high-rise housing, not community.
In my dreams, the world is still alive and vibrant. But when I look out here I don't see it. Everyone seems scared. The nights are quiet save for desultory fireworks. Even the young are bored. Blinking at each other, too numb to kiss. A panoptic anxiety.
Disassociatives have been in vogue for a generation, and there are no sober connections either. A miasma. An empty throat to be filled with desires for things no one ever really wanted. Lack of breath.
And who are you? Another worried dreamer. Another dreary-eyed recalcitrant. Go outside, go outside, go outside. Tighten your laces, and untie the knot in your gut. Someone else feels it, too, this bad star.
I asked myself What is happening here? There are critics all around. And how can I? Am I doing it right? There must be some use in speaking. Opened a book on writing to find answers from authorities. All it had was another white man who said Never write about your dreams; no one wants to hear but whomever you're fucking.
Stevie
Brooklyn, 14 August 2026
