I dreamed of strange and worrisome things.

Fallen leaves from my fiddle leaf fig. I collected them in a specialized tray that held them on their sides. Large green leaves with brown stacked and aligned like plates in a drying rack after a wash. As the leaves would fall I would collect them; they each resonated some sort of task—some sort of right of passage—some sort of measurement of detail needed, so they could be referenced or sourced via some machine or arm like on a record player or in a hard drive.

The the cast would change, and it’s as though it’s hours later in reality; I’m in a new space.

It’s really space. The same space you would see in science textbooks in the ’90s. It would show you classic images from the Voyager II mission: images of renown. I was floating or was I suspended: held and cradled in the hands of a feminine creator, like a mother. I saw Neptune in its classic image, and I swatted at it with my hand. It made the same sound as a Voit playground ball would as it was kicked across the field. I watched as it dangled back and forth, its stillness violently interrupted as it’s tiny moons quickly orbited the cerulean sphere.

I saw men as they traversed through space. It revealed the blackness of space like the dark water of an 8 ball. The astronauts would seem to emerge from the darkness like that of the blue polygon revealing the answer to your questions. I was able to reach and grab the astronaut as he tumbles through space. My reaching revealed him to a figurine or a model of dense foam slightly bigger than two feet.

I was filled will fear—I was filled with a complex bewildered shame of what I’d seen and touched. Then in my anticipation, I saw from the bottom of my vision a rising monochromatic red Jupiter. I feared what I would learn of it.