Nasty dreams (it’s all relative)

I told Kurt I’d had a nasty dream last night. “Me too,” he said, and proceeded to tell me about his, which involved him starting grad school again and having to live in a studio apartment with his wife and kid, trying to finagle living space and study-time and bed-time with all these factors.

“That’s nothing,” I said, and proceeded to tell him about mine, which involved a Johnny-Smith-in-“The-Dead-Zone”-type vision (i.e., I could only witness it, not act upon it, which was of much salience) in which a small child was strung up by his feet and burned alive as part of a ritual sacrifice, and I could hear so clearly his cries, and the worst part was, this other kid took him out of the flames, so he thought he was saved, except then he was put back into the flames, the respite of his cries now gone, and he had to prepare to burn to death again, after a fleeting false hope of survival—

Kurt interrupted me. “—Did I mention it was an efficiency?”

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