Mark Cuban was in my dream last night. He was hunched and peering as if to divine some meaning that was beyond him, but which he would no doubt attempt to apprehend through symbolic contortions, corrupting as he copied ad infinitum.
Mark Cuban was in my dream last night. He was hunched and peering as if to divine some meaning that was beyond him, but which he would no doubt attempt to apprehend through symbolic contortions, corrupting as he copied ad infinitum.