Tonight, I dreamt I was Nick Cave. When I woke, I thought if I wrote things down in his declarative, talk-singy way, I might sound a little like him, aping a nugget of his genius.
In the dream, I—Nick Cave—hadn't been sleeping well. I told you that in the dream. We had a long dinner table—interminable—draped in a big white linen, piled with a bounty picked from a verdant garden.
