These are not my dreams. These are aches. These are whims. These are cast away in the still waters of a rut. Of reality. These dreams see me pushing and shoving. Showing. Being. These dreams of fucking and whimsy. These dreams of satin and stains. These dreams of denial. Dreams of denial. Dreams of denial. These dreams, they beg, they proffer, they sing, they detest me in a slighting sort of way. These dreams, they confide in my their darkest secrets, they publish their turmoil for the world the see. I am the world. But, oh, fuck, I am the world. Fucking away, gently, rocking, groaning, aching, tension.
These dreams, they haunt me.