For no good reason on this Election Day, here’s something I dreamed in 1998.

A co-worker and I look out our office window onto a huge plowed field of eucalyptus trees. “It’s the next big thing in crops,” she assures me. She’s right–the trees are humongous.

We go down into the field to see the trees. “While we’re here, we may as well leave flowers,” she says, and I see we are at Kurt Cobain’s grave.

When I place my hastily assembled bouquet on the grave, I hear him snoring. Brushing away a little soil, I uncover Kurt himself: naked, dirty and skeletal, but oddly refreshed and ready to return to the music business. “What’s Courtney up to?” he asks.

I can’t let him go back to her, though, so I dye his hair and eyebrows black and convince him to pose as my new boyfriend.


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