I wake up in the morning, from a dream where I have been running all around, in a good, energetic way, and I am still. Perfectly still, lying on my back and staring at the ceiling.

It is a strange way to wake up. My alarm clock has not yet gone off, and will not for a couple hours - I went to sleep not three hours earlier.

Yet I wake up, wanting to move, yet wanting to remain beneath the covers. I want to continue the patterns I was working with while I was asleep. As I drift in and out of consciousness, I am able to continue the work that I was working on.

I am in a big, stone and concrete opressionalist structure, yet one with graceful curves, an art gallery or museum of some sort. I am in a room that is shaped a lot like my room, only so bare. I am participating in a work of performance art, but no one is watching the performance - it is the product of the performance that matters, like some sort of Richard Long piece.

Lying there in bed, I am moving my arms and legs back and forth, but in an ordered manner. I am moving, along the ground, making this work of art, yet I am not doing any actual work to cause the motion.

The surroundings seem to be Washington, D.C., yet they are distinctly different. I am still trying to physically cover large areas of ground, at first by lying down, in more built up area, and then by running around in the parks and on the monuments, tracing paths as I run along their ridges, the blanket trailing behind me, something like a cape but also keeping me warm.

I run around in the fountain between the East and West Wings of the National Gallery of Art, up and down it, then over to the Supreme Court building, around it, then off into some little park, where I start unrolling green, turf like material, covering the streets, nicely, upon which I fall asleep.

I pass in and out of consciousness again and again. Finally, I wind up back in the city, but it is a different city. It is in Communist Europe, but it takes place at the present. It is in black and white. It could be Berlin, or Warsaw, or Moscow, but it doesn't look like any of them. And there are no obvious signs of communism. And there are too many cars, all speeding around like they have important places to be.

I look there for a patch of grass, something to run across, starting at the top of a hill and running, skipping downhill. There is little, and I go lower and lower, finally finding a small scrap of grass by the edge of a massive river, that I am able to lie down by and sleep on, curled into a fetal position, warm and safe.