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Avery DiUbaldo: Sleep in August

Some mornings, I would wake before work with a mysterious, lingering optimism, as if I had won a lottery in the night and then forgotten about it, and it wasn’t until I was halfway out of the shower that I would remember the dream of the previous night, the dream in which she had appeared among all the other half-formed and siren things which populate dreams, all the dark forests and crumbling teeth, and had offered her hand for mine to hold