A person built a city, tenderly, a daydream city, a block and ten minutes between classes at a time. First they materialized a field, and stood-while-not-standing-actually on the field, made an inferno and leveled it. A firestorm of white sulked and the person watched until their phone rang and then a person left the whiteness for their actual location, which was a room, which wasn’t near the field. Then they forgot about the bonflower until they caught the bus, which purred or waited.

The bus was full of strangers. A person looked out of the window, was borne back to the charred and buttery space by the thrum and hob of the bus, the animal and bent mustard diabetic smell of perfume and bodies. Charred from the fire, buttery from the butterflies a person popped into existence while imagining what the strangers they saw from the bus liked about themselves. The butterflies collapsed from the smoke. A person reached their destination,

And a person left the bus and a person dreamt roads on the field, in squares first, which wasn’t right, and then in circles, which also wasn’t right, so a person made his streets tessellated and rose half of the field to a hill, for contrast. A person likes contrasts. Sometimes contrasts are nice.

A person dreamt museums and libraries and people, bars, bicycles, willow trees. The people became planets, pregnant barren planets with their own gravity & some offered more comfort to life than others. Some planets vacuumed others in with their compulsive gravity and filled their lungs and arteries with poisonous gases. The alphabet died. A person could do that, walking home in the sunshine. Eliminate comma fevers, clause sicknesses, language. They didn’t have to be there. They could be corrected. A person, drinking coffee in their yard, could imagine a system of broadcasts where no language was necessary. In this play epoch of daydream everyone understood through morphic resonance.

A person dreamt this place inside their carriage of terror every once in a while. Sometimes it was a field of vegetables, or a BMX track, or ribbons of beauty. A person had to sleep, eventually. A person wondered if that this field was renewed in sleep; if the planets and fantasies and resentments became a garden of skulls and time to compost for the next day, every one an epoch, all forgotten but the soil rich for new flight.