Ogliamelanschmertz — a word that sticks out from this dream, no remembrance of its meaning.
I’m reading a story I wrote, through car speakers, about a letter addressed to African American survivors living in the Great Dismal Swamp. The US Postal Service sends in a young Russian guy and there’s a documentary about his incredibly difficult efforts, during which I see first-person through his eyes. The expedition finds a glossy, smooth, rusted iron cookpot. It’s a splendid find, but it’s as far into the story as I got. I ask [dream] Lynae and she says honestly she doesn’t think the story has much merit.