There's a place that blends churches and workplaces I've been to. Former coworkers are there. People from the portland art scene. The lights are off and there is neon everywhere. In the piping of people's clothes and strewn along the walls. I jut through time and spaces at this party. It becomes digital. The walls and textures. I float by coworkers and feel like I'm on the way to Asia. I'm chasing my friend, a gallery owner in town. He wears lots of makeup and leather jacket. He's a blend of himself and an art critic. His girlfriend is androgynous and from the side looks like David Bowie. I run after Michael and Beckett, in and out of rooms, time and space. I feel sadness about them running, but know I'll find them. There is a door. I walk inside maybe alone, maybe with Beckett and Michael and a few others from this dream. We lie on our backs and watch the dome above us, like an iMax movie, but pixelated like the original super Mario brothers. It's Homer Simpson.
