Everybody has dreams. And everyone has money, even if it's just a few coins. Money is like love and sales tax: they are transitory items. What I get goes on, just lingers with me for a while. On a table stands a travel typewriter. Next to it: A stack of one-dollar bills. Whoever tells me one of his dreams, I type it in red letters on the back of the banknote. Then I roll up the bill and put it in a small clip-on bottle. Dream poetry is born of the moment. Message in a bottle, money container, secret, gift, work of art.