I was reading something about the Bible, or watching a documentary about it. It was a reinterpretation of biblical language, the kind where they discover that some Hebrew was never accurately translated and actually means something different. They were saying that the word that was translated in the Bible as “pure” would actually be better translated as “joined from us.”

I was on a plane to somewhere with J.T. On the tarmac I took pictures through the window of other planes, the sunset. I wanted to post them to Facebook but I was using my camera, not my phone. I found it had a feature that allowed me to email the pictures to myself. I tried to type out my email address with the little arrow controls on the back of the camera but it was incredibly difficult. When I finally sent them I noticed I was being charged $3 each time, by the airline or the airport or something. Fuck it, I figured, but I was annoyed.

We were supposed to go to Washington, DC but we landed in St. Louis. In the terminal, in the confusion, I realized that I’d left my black bag on the plane. I doubled back to see if I could get the people at the gate to let me back on.

I was working from home, having problems multitasking. Collaborating with a colleague named Kevin. Or was his name Tim? I struggled to remember. Everything seemed to be happening at once. I tried again and again to complete a simple job, never quite making it. At the same time there was a kind of rah-rah exercise, a celebration of the agency and its people. We all got our pictures taken standing along a steep sled run, all of us to be recognized and celebrated.

I sold my car for $750 to a rich guy who lived by the sea in LA. I was with S. and J. and a few other people, maybe in multiple cars. We pulled into the driveway and marveled at the compound, made up of several extravagant log cabins. The man strode out to greet us and handed me the cash. The car was already in his possession. How is it? I asked. Great, he said, great, and I wondered if I’d underpriced it. There were a few empty bottles left on the floor, he said. I said sorry, we like to recycle those. Thinking: We like to recycle those back home in New York City. Could you take care of them? I asked, and he agreed. I gazed through a screen of trees at the beach.

I was enlisted to take Kimi Raikkonen’s seat in his Ferrari at a Grand Prix, and finished third. In the dream, this had already happened, and I was dumbstruck by it. How did I actually steer a Formula 1 car for an hour and a half to victory? Why me? I wanted to tell people, but I was embarrassed by the extravagance of the accomplishment. Would they believe me? Who cares, I thought finally—it did happen, and that’s what matters.

A headhunter forwarded me a job opportunity working for a major hotel. It would be some business executive type job, not my thing, but tempting, maybe for that reason. The lengthy description included details about a project that had been very difficult for their team to achieve, calling it a “terse, bittersweet success.” Evidently the new hire was expected to improve on that. Also there were weird perks, like “a blonde personal secretary.” Then I was watching as a female colleague at my current job took a position there. She too would be doing very different work.

We were trying to play a Dylan tune, “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue,” I think, at C.W.’s instruction. I asked him whether a change at the end was really F sharp minor to D major seventh. We were driving somewhere in little cars, remote control cars that we both rode in and controlled from afar. I kept bumping into the car ahead of me. We had a gig somewhere, an outdoor space, like a festival. It was weird, we had a lot of technical problems, starting and stalling.