The moon is a sickle cell, it’ll kill you in time.
The other night, I dreamt I got two tickets to see Elliott Smith, and I gave one to Gary. We got on the train, and got off at the designated stop. We looked around us; the intimidating sky scrapers were so tall you couldn’t see where they ended, they rose above the swirly purple clouds. The city was completely hazed over by a blanket of mist, and the moon was a sickle cell in the sky. Me and Gary weaved in and out through the buildings, trying to look for the venue. We got terribly lost, and started to panic, because Elliott was going to be on in 5 minutes. We carried on frantically looking until we heard Elliott play his first song, which was Alameda, but we couldn’t find where the sound was coming from. I grabbed Gary’s hand and we ran and ran, looking down every street. It started raining and Elliott stopped playing. We never found Elliott, and I woke up really sad.
