tx underworld

how can a converted farmhouse be so intimate. for me, echoes usually more tend to render alienation.

it's a long rectangular room with high ceilings and wooden floors, sunny and warm, first floor. i start speaking about attachment theory. dream speeds up. she guides me there. can't leave. clean.

~

otherworld pestilence

subconscious, please relent! dreams every single night for at least a fortnight, maybe more. some grotesque, some tiny, tiny, tiny-- couldn't catch them, and neither could my cats.

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otherworld grandfather

feeble. his arm hurts. being ignored by everyone else. sharp pain of the loss and love for him, because i have a lucid knowing that he's dead already and it's only a dream. old decoration of living room in childhood: dark wood, rust-colored sofa. he is visiting our house. sitting on the corner square by the fireplace. i bring him some fruit. i say apple, plum, peach? he says all. i slice them up-- vivid. again that gutting hurt of knowing it's too late to show him my love. an urgent feeling then of knowing the dream is fleeting and wanting to see him one more time. he doesn't really see me, though. is wandering the house.

~

another dream, notes

throat excised by lion. my own siphonage of blood in watered down glasses, to keep him satiated; though he claims to be my friend and protector.

explore.

~