Playing with my hair
Last night's dream: making love to a blind androgyne in a house made of half-silvered glass. I wake up and the image is compressed and surreal, a lost frame from Le Sang d'un Poete. My dreams are never remarkable when I'm in them.

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We made him come.
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My dreams are never remarkable when I'm in them.
I suspect that this is one of the salient features of dreams.
I usually miss the love-making parts of my dreams, as if the dream was a film and there was a jump cut from the undressing to the waking up the next morning. Once I dreamt that a beloved and I had the most intense session of kissing-without-touching-lip-to-lip that I could imagine. I suspect we were were-creatures and that she was out of season.
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The song came along to meet that dream, seems like.
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