it is never the same river, and it is never the same you.

Him have I lost; the wish to find, the want to know, the need to hear and see.

and there he is the man of the hour the man of the minute the man of the moment standing there in the time in the clock in the tick and the tock and he stands in the middle of this nightmare that happens nearly every night and I fall to the ground and I wake

Her eyes were very dark. Ringed in darkness. Dark, dark eyes. She's smiling at me gently, as if she knows a secret, and she's sitting at the little table across from me, votives lighting up the corners of the room, giving her hair a glint of red.

She's saying things to me, but I cannot hear them. Everything's on mute, except for the rushing of water. Not water like in a river, but water being churned by machinery. A great rushing, roaring noise. Triumphant and relentlessly methodical. This is like headache noise, except I know it's not in my head. It's all around me. Her lips are moving, she seems like she would have fine diction, a well-tuned ear for language. Definitely a deep, husky voice. I watch her teeth appear and the tip of her tongue touching her bottom teeth as she speaks. She doesn't seem to care that I cannot hear. Perversely, it's almost as if she knows I am deaf to her, and she continues speaking anyway.

The light is golden in the room, the amber-brown of her irises a counterpoint to the warmth and safety I am provided visually. Aurally, it's anything but comfort. This noise is an abomination, a cancellation of biology, a taut cable, plucked and twanging.

I'm seeing her fade as I awake. The alarm didn't wake me. Nothing did. Ethan's at my side, almost completely still as he sleeps.

The world is not golden. There is no rushing churning of water. It's just me and Ethan and the house and tears on my cheeks. How banal.

We've somehow stepped outside of ourselves, like bones out of skin, context replaced by glamorie.

never the same you

never the same you

never the same you

never never never nevernevernevernevernevernevernevernevernevernever

There is very little color in this dream that I can remember. Shredded posters on the remaining wall of a low building - rusted red, like dried blood. Yellow, indanthrone, striped across in headlines, probably some band played there once. There's absolutely no music now. There's almost nothing.