|
I dream.
Damn you, but you don't know what I mean by that.
To dream.
How I wish that was all that word meant, to pleasantly drift
into a world of illusion where ecstasy and hell are only imagined.
But my dreams aren't illusions, they're as sharp and deadly as
razors. I have the scars to prove it.
L. is an ebony handled stiletto with a chrome blade. Cold as
ice, she draws hot crimson blood. My blood. Rivers of red.
L. is my dream.
There is a dream, a fine thread of existence from which I dangle
like a marionette. L. is that dream, that thread and she knows
it.
She threatens to cut the thread.
|
Her name is L.
And damn you a thousand times again, because you still don't
know what I mean. You see, L. isn't a mockery of reality like
other men's dreams. L. is a Bugatti Veyron doing 200 at midnight in
the rain. L. is the pounding of your heart when the world is
ending and the gates of heaven open above and the maw of hell
yawns below. L. is the most beautiful woman in the world and
the most excruciating pain of hopeless love. L. is a dream, but
I can touch her and she can touch me.