January 2

In my dream last night, a group of old friends — half-forgotten ones and a couple I barely knew — recruited me for a mission to go into Hell to save the soul of someone (I don’t remember who). As we ventured down the spiral staircase into Hell, we remembered that we’d been told to keep our shoes on at all costs, and our wits about us.

We arrived on what seemed like the bottom level, and were all ushered separately into a massive hall that looked like an elaborate summertime wedding reception, surrounded by eager waiters in fancy clothes offering dinner options and drinks. None of the dinner choices sounded particularly appealing, but the smiling waiter instead said, “Don’t worry, I know exactly what you’d like,” and true to form, brought a plate of food from childhood nostalgia that looked impressively tempting.

As I was about to tuck in, someone said something to my side. I turned to respond, and turning back a second later, saw that my plate was empty, my food eaten by the person sitting to the other side of me. “Hey, sorry about that,” the stranger said, “but this is Hell, after all.”

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