Over two decades ago, Mason Gordon had a dream. It was a recurring dream, actually, the type that he had so frequently that he had to accept it as a sign. This wasn’t in the same realm as the classic teeth falling out or walking naked through the grocery store dreams, though. This was about poetic violence—a sort of beautiful wreck. Eventually, it would morph into a cult sensation. For now, though, it was just a series of somewhat disturbing images.
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