Alison Tyler dreamed about me! How fucking cool is that? Okay, okay, she didn’t have the kind of dream I really want her to have. You know the one where she… oh, wait, you don’t know? Hm… Never mind. I’ll, uh, tell you later…
But she did dream about me. And now I’m going to see what I dream about if I fall asleep thinking of Alison’s dream (it’s like the mirror inside the mirror inside the mirror, isn’t it?). You know how if you put an idea in your head, or you think about a problem, right before you sleep, and then you wake up, and you’ve elaborated on the idea or you’ve fixed the problem? It’s going to be like that. Only it’s inspired by Alison, so, you know, it’s likely going to end up being one of those wild and wonderful dreams that make no sense, full of Paris-style imagery and back-lit scenes and the smells of perfume and leather and the whisper of fabric and the heat of my cheeks, the way they pinken and prickle when I don’t want them to.
So, off to dreamland I go, thinking of raven-black hair and strangers on trains and the jangle of keys and the curl of fingers and leather around my wrists.
What do you dream about?
Kiss kiss bang bang, s.
PS — Yes, I want this sink. Like, a lot.
*When you dream, What do you dream about? Are they color or black and white, Yiddish or English Or languages not yet conceived? Are they silent or boisterous? Do you hear noises just Loud enough to be perceived? Do you hear Del Shannon’s runaway playing On transistor radio waves?… When you dream, What do you dream about?