My name is S.

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.

The Thread Her name is L.

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.

Veyron 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.

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.