Under Salmon Skies

The dreams themselves were always in the same place. It was a strange place. The sky was pink, and it was like a sparse jungle. There were trees and plants and flowers and vines that I’d never seen before.

As a child, I used to have a recurring nightmare. Well, I say recurring, but it wasn’t the same every time; rather, it continued where it left off. And I say nightmare, but it wasn’t properly scary, just strange.

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