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dream draft #1
Feb. 20th, 2014 04:26 amAlways in the beginning it is unclear whether or not the dream is his or that of another, even to William. (especially.)
That squiggle could be anything. (the reminiscent lock of a lover's hair on the pillow.) (smoke off a homestead burning.) (an enormously narcissistic signature, half of a page.) (a kill order: it might as well have read, Gentlemen, do what you do best. murder them.) (a luminous diagram of stellar parallax.) (sandy rattlesnake walk.) (the long scrape of a dead man's boots dragged through mud, en route to disposal.) (crayola.) (one thread popped from the fishnet.) (god's fingers; the sunlight shafting through mobile water.)
(the neon afterimage over-exposed streakily into one's retinas in that moment that the gravity couch's sedation kicks in, twitches the optic nerve, sends one's vision skating crazy through the bright lights of the medbay before they shut into artificial darkness, you know. the light trails.)
(something else.) (never mind.)
But after that, William is definitely somewhere he has never been. An unfamiliar sentiment pounds on him like a kicked ear, and he watches foreground separate from background. (it's especially weird when people dream smells, but nearly no one dreams without color.) He looks for a familiar face and almost always finds one.
(you're especially fucked if you can't remember one of those.)
William is the inobtrusive figure to the left. (sitting at starbucks, god forbid, or climbing a nearby tree made of purple. perhaps the lateral companion sharing the narrow space of this comfortable coffin.) He looks at the object resolving in their hand. (pistol, vial, half of a CD, blueberry, kidney; perhaps one fine-toothed comb.) William looks pretty calm. He says: "Oh,
"That's lovely."
That squiggle could be anything. (the reminiscent lock of a lover's hair on the pillow.) (smoke off a homestead burning.) (an enormously narcissistic signature, half of a page.) (a kill order: it might as well have read, Gentlemen, do what you do best. murder them.) (a luminous diagram of stellar parallax.) (sandy rattlesnake walk.) (the long scrape of a dead man's boots dragged through mud, en route to disposal.) (crayola.) (one thread popped from the fishnet.) (god's fingers; the sunlight shafting through mobile water.)
(the neon afterimage over-exposed streakily into one's retinas in that moment that the gravity couch's sedation kicks in, twitches the optic nerve, sends one's vision skating crazy through the bright lights of the medbay before they shut into artificial darkness, you know. the light trails.)
(something else.) (never mind.)
But after that, William is definitely somewhere he has never been. An unfamiliar sentiment pounds on him like a kicked ear, and he watches foreground separate from background. (it's especially weird when people dream smells, but nearly no one dreams without color.) He looks for a familiar face and almost always finds one.
(you're especially fucked if you can't remember one of those.)
William is the inobtrusive figure to the left. (sitting at starbucks, god forbid, or climbing a nearby tree made of purple. perhaps the lateral companion sharing the narrow space of this comfortable coffin.) He looks at the object resolving in their hand. (pistol, vial, half of a CD, blueberry, kidney; perhaps one fine-toothed comb.) William looks pretty calm. He says: "Oh,
"That's lovely."
