(This article originally appeared in the October 1993 issue of SPIN. In a twist on the limited-edition model, we're making this article available for two weeks, and then unpublishing it.)Fame has a vaporizing effect. It lifts and floats the celebrity into our most private venue: dreams. But for Kurt Cobain, our collective obsession seems like a car's stark headlights, freezing its unassuming victim in the glare. "In my dreams, there's always this apocalyptic war going on between the right and the left wing," he says, sitting on the plush burgundy couch in his Seattle living room. "The last dream I had like this was two nights ago. Courtney and I were in the Hollywood Hills, and Arnold Schwarzenegger was my neighbor. I was completely disgusted by the idea of living next to these people." Cobain speaks in a lilting Pacific-Northwestern drawl, like a grungy Quentin Crisp.