"you were in my dream last night. you lived in a sprawling seventies ranch-style house, dark wood and wall-size windows. i had crashed on your couch and you took me to work in the morning. when we went outside it was sunny and snowing. we drove down park ave. and saw about four horrible car accidents, which i was perturbed by but didn't seem to faze you. i was holding a shrimp salad and you kept looking down at it, finally saying, "it's so pink! way pinker than that orangey-red color of that shrimp," pointing over at a little kid dressed in a full-body shrimp costume. there must have been some sort of costumed little league game that had just finished, because groups of kids were walking home dressed like shrimp, pocahontas, and pixie stix (thousands of pixie sticks taped together like fringe). i commented on the car accidents and you said, "well, i think the big motorcycle crash over by the locksmith building was just a publicity stunt." i had to concur."
Sarah Levine
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the whole town economy was based on publicity stunts, you see.
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