He dreams he’s riding due north on a bus the same color as its own exhaust, passing again and again the same gutted cottages and expanse of heaving sea, weeping. The dream goes on and on, without any kind of resolution or arrival, and he weeps and sweats as he lies there, stuck in it.
Another really on-point exceptional and tight snippet of writing that is in danger of being swallowed up by the bulk of text all around it. Sometimes I would like to see DFW have written something tight, spare, economical. Because he really can hit these traditional writing styles and systems perfectly well.
