My Name was Supposed to be Elizabeth Ann

— Stories from the Roads (Not) Taken

I hate to dream.  I dream in color and minute detail. In patterns of setting, plot, and genre. Their characters are archetypes, not familiars. Their conflicts encoded metaphors for my waking life.  Vivid dreams, in other words.  Subconscious manifestations of external turmoil, they are a nightly phenomena with which I have been intimately acquainted even …

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