My mom says not to fall in love with a car. She coughs up into a tissue wrinkled in her hand. There’s blood in it. It’s dark and I’ve committed myself to going to bed at the drop of the hat of darkness. But I want to finish watching the movie with my mom. The red car, full of sex, runs over a greaser. We don’t see it but it’s implied.
As I sit here at my computer writing this story, I don’t see any fiery sunrises or dark clouds looming, or sense some aura about me, and I didn’t wake up trembling when the alarm went off or any of that nonsense. I am up early, as usual, after one of “those” dreams, of which I’ve had so many over the years. The same dream.