walking soundlessly over a field of fallen leaves as all the clouds overhead recede further into a hole in the atmosphere, chasing after them, trying to capture them with a butterfly net, giving up in vain, retiring to a trendy coffee shop downtown where all the people speak in fake british accents and wear large russian hats. bjork plays from my iced mocha and i think i can see through the two-way mirror reflecting society's image outside i think i can see into their minds but i'm really just looking into my drink listening to that song about love while the hole in the atmosphere slowly sucks me into oblivion.
everything has its own taste. i don't see a tree...i taste it. a boy i knew in third grade welcomes me to a club where they play german hip-hop 'til 3 in the morning and i can taste the excitement in the air around me. it tastes like something so unlike chicken...it's undefined yet still accessible. he gives me a pill and it dulls my taste until i can't breathe and i see that they're not just dancers, they're the tobacco farmers with gas masks on and once i become like them i can't taste anymore. fog swelling up and swirling all around me and i can't see through to that boy i once pledged my love for in a notebook in bad cursive writing (i didn't remember how to make a Q so his last name begins with a 2). it's not tasting right and i throw up on his velvet shoes, crying and ashamed of my immaturity i manage to rip a gas mask off of a dancer and they all look like me. i don't understand...fade out like a movie where you know it's the end but you secretly hope you're wrong...well, you're not...
if i stare too long at one thing it begins to become magnified...too much so. i can't stop staring at my hand, at the skin, at the cells...it gets to be too much. go to the doctor and he says hold on a moment and he brings the bunch of them in, all staring with their spectacles concealing the eyesockets (that's how you tell they had the lobotomies) making notes on their pads. but i can see the writing, the ink, the cells, inside the cells... i make the mistake of looking into the mirror one day and i feel like just skin and bones and these sickening little atoms of dust and clay because all i saw was half-used antibiotics. it makes me upset. i tell myself to relax, but when i get on the bus to go to the basketball game, the driver tells me i look like a walking corpse. that's it! i yell, throw him into a lake, drive the bus into an independent music store...sirens and harsh lights...
wake up. dreams always come in threes. anything more or less you can't trust.
you write down what you fear the most so it won't happen. it can't happen twice so you win in the end. sometimes you mess up, though, and you dream something even worse.
i'd like to dream these dreams one night when i know i have nothing to lose. because they aren't about love, world peace, or happiness and depression...they aren't the dreams you're supposed to have. i want to dream when i'm conscious while experiencing my subconscious.
that would be lovely.