I wake up in a small field. Once, here, a woman was arrested for carrying on a conversation with a nearby tree. Now all the trees are dead and for sale. In the distance I see some dead, vacant buildings, left abandoned.
I'm in my house. I know it's my house because I can almost feel safe. Safe, except there are two elongated, swollen, black slugs writhing in slippery ecstasy on the couch in the front room. Their wet slapping sounds echo down the elongated hallway and fill the rooms in a dripping, carnal haze that I now find myself trying to navigate through.
Somewhere in the house is a pink piece of paper that legally declares me an utter and complete loser, and for some reason I must locate it. It feels as though this simple piece of dyed, processed wood will solve all my problems. Quiet the voice. Prove a point. But will it?
The slugs on the couch continue their soggy ritual and a voice from behind me declares safety a myth.
I wake to find I was never asleep in the first place.
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