There’s something about dreams had when you are young: how the shape they take might mirror the wisp of worn hair, or perhaps the fuzzy blaze of San Bernardino summer. There’s something about the worlds you create, when the center of your universe was an empty church, a dilapidated basketball court; when sanctuary was an abandoned boat, washed against the rocks at the end of a freshly-paved parking lot. When I was young, I dreamt about taking that broken boat and setting sail towards the midd...