The linear story lines of my dreams have stopped occuring. They are a melange, a collage, of different impulses now, layerd over each other, fallen bodies, still intact, yet transparent. I dream of three tongues on my cunt, and dozens more all over my body, my breasts, my mouth, my eyes, ears, fingers. All by women. I am chained up on a wall. None of us seem fully conscious, there is another mood with us that is intoxicating. There is a convulsing pulse of orgasms, gathering and releasing with each new flush of blood, like an open wound. My skins maintains its rose while I am drained in this way. And even while I dream, I feel fatigued, worn, drugged. Everything moves slowly, with soft moans like old floors under footsteps. Something is muffled, even the sound, the voices, are slow and distorted through its decelerated speed. The words transform their texture, sink into the moisture in the air, and when it finally reaches me, my ears are wet, from the humidity of the sphered word and from my own excited anticipation.