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Scramble in the interim.

It's 5 in the morning, and I'm the last person in this plane still awake.

I don't think my brain is actually full-on, as I keep getting dream images running through my head. I am a puddly barrel of black goo with a polished brass plaque. I am licked by senators and various curious mammals who want to taste but don't stop to chat, but are jonesing in that furious way, their tongues getting forced into every little crack and cranny as if to get the last tiny drop out of every taste.

And then I am on the floor in a small room, naked on the linoleum, and I notice it's real Linoleum and not the vinyl shit that they make today. I am alone in the room but somehow I know there are people watching, hungry eyes in the dark, and I fart.

Then I am in the sky, falling and flying and free, passing through clouds of honey-gold warmth and I am not afraid even though I know I'm going to die.

Then I am a condiment in a salad bar, thinking condiment thoughts, both wanting to be used because that is the sole reason for my existence and being terrified because each taste brings me closer to my eventual demise.

Tales of sex and death.

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magicmarmot
Jan. 11th, 2006 06:17 am (UTC)
It's my hair.
molasses
Jan. 11th, 2006 06:20 am (UTC)
:)

hmmm.
that might be part of it...

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