This is the beginning of something I have a novel size idea for. It's pretty choppy, this is the first draft.
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It’s her again.
A little different then last time we met -- she seems always to be changing the way she looks; but it’s her unmistakably.
I wear the early warm morning sun, it drowns us and I don’t think I’m breathing. It passes through the stained glass windows and into understanding. But not really. The walls are painted with the sunlight my thin curtains filter. A dark bland red wine. I’m not sure how I know of the colors of the walls, since I haven’t looked away from her once. I haven’t even blinked, blinking is wasteful in such moments.
I am God. Here right now, whilst dreaming anyway. I am everywhere, everything is born of me, and what I see now is Dea, my goddess. This time she comes to me with the most fair of skin. In purple ink it is written, ‘My Lover is Mine and I Am His,’ down her left arm.
Dove like eyes mirror the car crash sunrise aflame in the East. I move my head closer to hers, my lips press against her cheek imitating rose. My teeth gently close and clamp around a pedal of her flesh, and I begin to pull away. With taffy like resistance the skin stretches out half an arms length. Release. And the skin gently slithers back into form.
The skin is kind of floating -- she must have done way with gravity. I repeat this again on her forehead and the skin again resolves. Well, most of gravity. As my turn arises I watch her eyes close and head lean in. She must be of whom Solomon sang.
I feel her moist lips touch me. She pulls away and the lower part of my jaw’s skin comes into view. Dea releases, but before my skin has come back into me, she does this again to my upper cheek, and even again halfway up on the opposing cheek. I’m not bleeding but if I were, it would resemble that of Christ’s. I am, absolute divine ecstasy. Watching her, and my skin stretched out and pulled, floating, this moment seems not ever to end. To go on without limit, and only to grow stronger.
Disoriented.
For some reason I’m considering which alternate route I should take to avoid the plethora of cars; the swelling blood blister that’s in a state of turgescence every single morning and afternoon. Ready to pop and ooze its dark red blood and bodily fluid onto the surrounding houses and streets. Fucking freeway.
I decide I’m not even going to move. Just lay here with her. I am in the in between transitioning state. Like of which when you are reading a book and you flip to the next page. In between the pages. Full of wonder, curiosity, and vulnerability. You are not inside the book, but not engaging in the reality of the world. I flip the page and open my eyes and realize there’s no more words to be read.
I look through an almost empty bottle of Vox and stare at the tv. I’m told of the traffic laying ahead for me from the man in the helicopter on the morning news. I sit up from my bed of debauchery and pour myself a drink. I’m not an alcoholic, I just drink like one.
The camera goes back to the studio and I see a women and man shuffling threw papers. For a second, the women resembles Dea. Then she opens her mouth, speaks, and I immediately take back the thought. I close my eyes and relive my dream. Here, nothing matters. No time, nor distraction. I think my only sense is sight. Complete rapture.
I was now in my car, driving. I don’t really remember getting here. Sometimes my legs have a mind of their own. Sometimes I want to cut them off.
I’m listening to some morning talk show.
Murmurs. The guy says something laughing. This kind of stuff keeps me informed of what’s happening in the world. My friend says how she hates everyone. People suck and we should all die. Except you she tells me. I think she likes me though, so it’s a little bias. But even then, to some, to love is to despise. I don’t object to this premise, people sucking and deserving to die, but I don’t know, I love people. Their interactions with other people. Their thought process. Even this dumb ass radio show host. My friend, she also seems to almost always be bored. I haven’t been bored in years. Almost everything seems to entertain me. Every day is a gift that to often we waste. I take a swig of Irish whiskey.
“A new text, believed to be inspired of Bin Laden...”. I’m not listening, but this catches my ear because I thought he said “a new sex tape discovered with Bin Laden in it...”. I was wrong. I hate disappointment.
The radio sends me into a bore; I tune out and go back to my dream. It blows me away, the way something so real, so infinite, can just come to an end. It probably feels like dying.
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