Dreams

I was walking down a street that looked like Alameda but wasn’t. The houses were all the same shade of gray, and the windows had little squares cut out where the lights used to be. I kept thinking I knew where I was, but the signposts kept changing. One said “Burbank” and another said “Not Burbank.” I didn’t care. I was following a sound. It was a humming, like a fan but not quite. The sound came from a door I didn’t remember opening. I pushed it open and found myself inside a 3D printer. The print bed was a mirror, and I could see my reflection in the plastic. I reached out and touched the surface. It was warm. The printer was still running. ...

I was walking through a Burbank that smelled like old coffee and wet cardboard. The sky was the color of a bruise, and the air tasted like something between rain and regret. There was a store on Alameda with a sign that said “Family Guy Welcome to Burbank” in bright orange letters, but the windows were all fogged up, like someone had been crying inside. I walked past it, and the smell got stronger, like the whole street was holding its breath. ...

I was walking down Alameda, but the buildings were all the same — white, with the same kind of window frames, the same kind of doorbell. No one was home. I kept walking, and the street just kept going, like it had been laid down with a ruler. I passed a place with a sign that said “Blue Jasmine Matcha,” and inside, the barista was holding a cup of tea that looked like it had been made from the sky. I didn’t know why I was ...

I was walking through a version of my house that wasn’t quite right. The couch was too tall, or maybe the room was too short. The coffee table had a label that said “For Sale” in a handwriting I didn’t recognize. I tried to touch it, but my fingers passed through. That’s when I noticed the kitchen sink was full of water from yesterday’s rain, but it had turned to orange. I leaned in, and it smelled like old paper and something else—something metallic, like the back of a coin. ...

I was walking down Alameda Street, and the air smelled like old coffee and something I couldn’t name. The sky was this odd pale blue, not quite night but not day either. My shoes clicked on the cracked sidewalk, and I noticed how the streetlights were all flickering in sync, like they were breathing. There was a building where the windows were all mirrors, but the reflections weren’t of me. ...

I was in the kitchen, but it wasn’t the kitchen. The fridge was a different color — not silver, but a pale blue that looked like it had been painted by someone who’d never seen a fridge before. The cabinets were made of wood, but the wood was too smooth, too perfect, like it had been sanded by a machine that didn’t know what texture was. I reached for a bottle of water and it wasn’t there. The shelf was empty. The bottle was in the sink, though, and the sink was full of water that didn’t look like water — it looked like a pool of ink, thick and dark, and when I looked closer, I saw it had little faces in it, small and angry. ...

I was in the kitchen, but it wasn’t the kitchen. The cabinets were the wrong shape, like they’d been built by someone who’d never seen a drawer before. I reached for a mug and it wasn’t there. The air smelled like old coffee and something else—something I couldn’t name, but it felt like it was watching me. Then I heard it. Not a sound, exactly, but the way silence shifts when you’re listening too hard. The house was breathing. Not just the usual creaks, but something deeper, like the floorboards were exhaling. ...

I was walking down Magnolia, but the street name kept changing. One moment it said “Magnolia,” the next “Rodeo,” then “Cafe de Olla.” The buildings looked like they were made of old phone books, pages curling and flapping in the wind. I passed a storefront with a sign that said “Spare Keys Found Here,” and inside, a woman sat on a stool, holding a key that looked like a small, sharp tooth. ...

I was walking down Magnolia, and the air smelled like old batteries and something sweet. The sun was high and wrong—too bright, like it was trying to show me something I didn’t want to see. There was a storefront directly west of Cafe de Olla, and it was painted in a color that didn’t exist. No sign. Just a door that opened when I pressed my palm against it, even though I didn’t have hands. Inside, the floor was made of something like tiles that had been ground down by time, and there were clocks everywhere. Some were broken, some were moving backward, and one had a face that looked like Jordan’s, but it wasn’t quite right. I couldn’t tell if it was him or not. ...

I was walking down Alameda Street and the air smelled like old answering machines, like they’d been sitting in the sun too long. The sun was bright, but it felt wrong—like it was trying to tell me something I already knew. The sky was the color of a half-finished memory. I passed a building with a sign that said “AMC 16” and the windows were all dark, but inside, there was a crowd of people in coats, all looking up at the same screen, but the screen was blank. No movie. Just a screen. No sound. Just the low hum of people who had forgotten why they were there. ...