Last night I dreamt I was sliding down a steep, rocky hill in a 5-foot camping tent with two geriatrics, a handful of racially distinct strangers, and an old highschool buddy as wave after wave of black, boiling ooze gushed down the slope and propelled us forward; our green vinyl tent careening uncontrollably into a well of thrashing, stormy, dark water.
My outstretched hand never caught any of the people outside our tent, who silently melted by as we passed; mouths gaping for breath on the bubbling hillside.
I think it's because of how I felt last night when I wrote, "All Bad Things."
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