It's 5 a.m. as The Observer writes this, and we're still shaking a bit from the adrenaline of the dream. It's 5 a.m. as The Observer writes this, and we're still shaking a bit from the adrenaline of the dream. We don't remember our skull movies often, but when we do, they're always vivid. In the one we just woke from, we'd spent all day and into the night driving a friend around in the deep green 1968 Pontiac Bonneville our mother owned when we were around 7 or 8 years old, acres of sheet metal and American chrome, The Observer and our old pal whooping it up and carving corners, windows down, cold Coca-Colas in glass in our hands and so sweet they were like manna. With the sun soon to rise, we took him back to his place, and...
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