Sunday, February 17, 2008

Eight and a half hours

Trying to sleep, but beset with completely unauthorized dreams. These things are not supposed to happen. A piece of peanut left lodged in my molar, released by an exploring tongue. An imagined wet, pink theater of improbable activity. The space of the mouth is flipped by flipping the tongue.

It's nothing but taking out the trash. Nothing but the janitorial services of the mind, dressed in grey jumpsuits, handling unacceptable needs. Best not to dwell on these things. Best to let them go. Dreams are meant to be forgotten. That's why we forget them. Except when we don't.

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