An instructor once told me that she skips over dream sequences in books and stories.
Damn, what if someone wants to pay me by the word !?!?!?
What I wouldn’t give at this sleepless point in time for the sandman to draw his fingers through my essence and stir up images buried deep under layers of brain matter and consciousness like so much debris in a muddy river.
God, I haven’t fished in a while.
(ODB is playing in a an endless loop- dedicated to all the pretty girls in world, and the ugly girls too, because to me you’re pretty anyway baby )
I want deep sleep. Canyon deep sleep. Bottom of the ocean, under tons of blue water, deep sleep. I don’t care what 1 a.m. looks like or 2 a.m. looks like- it’s all the same except the commercials are sexier. But not sexier like a Sunday morning lounging in p.j.’s with a cup of coffee and the paper and sticky cinnamon fingers and pouty lips and tussled hair over dreamy eyes.
Did I mention Gloria is out of town and my bed feels immense, from see to shining see. I need binocolors to find a pillow. It takes an eternity to get even close to a gray kind of vision and soon the alarm clock begins to strangle any dream that has wandered to close to my nose as it creeps into my ears with red digital fingers wrapped around my brain.
Take two Benny Drills. Straight to the noggin. That kind of sleep feels like the moment right after you puke and the acid is etching graffiti on you teeth. It’s cotton brain. It stops. No dreams, no rest, no fun.
(ODB is playing in an endless loop- hey dirtay, baby I gotch ya money, dontcha worray)
Let me drop from the precipice. Let me fly. I want to fly. I erased the dream sequence from my story, Damnit.
I erased the dream sequence from my story, Damnit.