Awesome story by my little brother, David Kantrowitz
The Dream Writer
The day I was hired to be a dream writer was the happiest of my life. I never imagined that it might kill me, and imagination was the entire reason I was hired.
I became a bartender at the Freudian Cigar to hobnob with dream writers, who worked in the building across the street. There, at five o’clock in the evening, they would gather to smoke, drink, and blow off steam from the day’s chaos, prior to stumbling to their cars or rideshare services, to go home and hopefully dream of absolutely nothing. I had hoped, rightfully as it turned out, that I could use that proximity to wrangle my resume into the hands of somebody that mattered.
That the Dinas needed dreams was a relatively well-guarded secret, perpetuated by a tacit agreement between the government and media outlets. There was far too much money invested in…
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