It was impossible to reach the window. A pile of ash and slush, heavy, grey and dark stood in my way. I couldn’t ignore the raised mound of muck that kept me from the view of the hill. The waste at places was oily, purple, black and with a shadow as dark as a November night. The emotional stink coming from the pile was toxic and pitiful.
I would have to get past me, the manifest content of suffrage.
The Dream written in the style of Stephen King.