A basement artist space, narrow, underlit and unkempt. I can see through the floorboards to the trash that’s fallen into the sub-basement storage, peek through the walls to make eye contact with the guys running a record store. The first night I stay there — I may be moving in — there are big fluffy bathrobes and towels on pegs. I keep my backpack outside with my bike and leave my laptop in there; someone takes it before I realize.
Lauren has been mailed (or needs to be mailed?) a little ground covering net to protect sea turtle hatchlings. It’s kept in a turtle-shell-shaped keepsake container.
This whole dream world feels very nocturnal, dark, dirty.