More dreams. This time of a house on a hill resembling a nipple on a tit. It unfolded like a movie. Something by Hitchcock. The scene in psycho where she’s driving with a headful of memories and heart of sharpened knives. Even as it faded upon waking, my mouth salivated as the imagery that seemed so real retreated to the pillow cradling my weary brain the way a good drink numbs bad thoughts. They say you should never end a sentence with a preposition, but I do it all the time. I do it on purpose. They say you should seek to be like others, but I try my utmost to resemble only myself. The books on the shelves flap their wings like birds; the pages are feathers. The feathers are words, and they tickle me the way I wish to tickle her. She was in my dreams too. She began as a girl, then transformed into an animal before dissolving into a gust of wind blowing over the surface of a frozen lake. Tossing and turning, daylight lurks on the edge of my senses. Work beckons. It grumbles like a concrete wheel. Stumbling down the stairs into the kitchen, I swallow some painkillers and wash them down with a coffee. Black. No sugar, and strong enough to make me wince. For a moment or so, the images that danced in my sleep come back to me in full flight, as does the house on the hill. The nipple is hers. The frozen lake is cracked; my love somewhere within. Hidden. Hiding. I comb my hair. I wash my cock. Time is a crutch. It goes on and on. Outside, the cold air pricks my lungs, and the streets run away from me. They swirl into the distance like soap bubbles disappearing down a drain. My life is a wet paper aeroplane, a scarecrow doused in gasoline.
X and I: A Novel and A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon UK
X and I: A Novel and A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon US
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