This Is How It Ends

Last night I dreamed about The End of the World.

In the dream my family and I went to a hole-in-a-wall restaurant somewhere in the ghetto part of the city. The restaurant had a karindirya vibe. The plastic tables and chairs were arranged unceremoniously in an open garage along a crummy alley, and the trays of food were displayed behind a glass case similar to the ones in fancier turo-turo places.

My mind was elsewhere when we got there. I was thinking about Something, and Something was stressing me so hard that I decided to light a cigarette that I fished out of my sweater pocket. I puffed a smoke in front of my parents and they didn’t seem to care. All was well.

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