This is no mythic opening to an essay. This is true:

I woke from a dream where I was on my knees in front of Best Small Fictions – whatever that means: on my knees. I was physically supplicant and simultaneously not there. Yet emotionally on my hands and knees. And Best Small Fictions did not look like this:

Best Small Fictions 2020

It looked like this:

I thought, “Are even my dreams trite?”

Anyway, I don’t think it takes Freud to figure out what’s going on, here.