every night when i am settling into my pillow, i try to plan my dreams. every night my dreams are not what i had planned because the movement in my resting brain is far more abstract in plot than i could ever consciously map.
a small bird, the size of a two dollar coin falls into a smoldering patch of earth from a discarded cigarette, its wings are covered in soot and it cannot fly, i hold it in my hand and try to wipe it off but it dies. i can still feel the grief that filled the rest of the dream. i went on to receiving unexpected guests in a small car, who had driven from edmonton to see me, though we've only had a few brief encounters, then disassembling my skateboard and mounting the trucks and wheels onto a piece of floppy cardboard. i was upset about the stability of the contraption but was still able to get a backside disaster and sweeping tail block on the ramp that seemed to be in the field near the sylvan lake apostolic lutheran church.