In the bath, I hear a reminder about a gathering the landlord is throwing. My friend Jerome (who was our roommate once) is texting, wanting to know who’s there at the party.
Some kind of medicated powder. Someone suggests I could just sell it to Max directly instead of showing up at this faraway party (I’m not at home now, you see, and somehow I know it in the dream). I’m highly concerned this whole endeavor could end up causing more anxiety than it fixes.
Walking along a row of plants, watering a few, then being asked by a little kid to please improve their life. Redwood branches are built like stacked walkways; can’t think of how to train them better to become a usable treehouse. I walk away feeling overwhelemed, a failure.
Walking another row of this plantation we’re on, I discover a set of wooden sliding doors that it seems people don’t usually see. Words printed on either door read “interior”/”exterior”. I can’t get them open — but I think this is the secret order who’ve figured out how to live surreptitiously. I keep hearing about them.
“See wha the doves think”, a quote from someone. A pretty short-haired blonde girl, reclining in opulent luxury.