Last night, I dreamt of Kresten and Bianca. In a blurring cityscape akin to a parking garage but under a deep blue night the shade of indigo characteristic of an acid trip (perhaps), leading into a lamplit blackness reminscent of Sonic the Hedgehog, I saw Kresten and Bianca seated beside a cinder-gray wall, or maybe a gray, parking-garage-type pillar, in alternation.
The mood was a markedly humiliating one between them. They seemed mired in their collective narcissism, wholly dependent, upapologetically, almost unnoticin-gly, and social.
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