October 04, 2004

She dreamt I wasn’t myself. In her dream someone wearing my face started killing people and she couldn’t convince it to stop.

I told her I don’t remember my dreams. “My forgetfulness is justified,” I said. “The one dream I remember went something like this: I was armed with a knife running around a prison raping men. I enjoyed the dream rapes tremendously — such surge of power. In the middle of the night I awoke with a hard-on.”

She promised to barge in on my dreams when we’re sleeping together. “I’ll make you remember,” she said. With our heads resting on the same pillow, we’ll share dreams and shivers in the darkness.