pg 62 of 91

Now you may think the story is too violent or too much to handle but remember that this is a dream and nothing of it could ever be renounced as otherwise. I wrote this because I read and read and read and found content and style and genre and I don't really know if it fits, until she wakes up and explains, in the critical sense, what it means. I won't even show her actually because why ruin a good thing. I like the story and if that makes me happy so be it. At least it's an art form from someone who spent most of his child hood watching people smoke and piss into a canister, and I did this because I read and understood. 

I'm neither a poet nor a prince but I can be what you wish I be, and that's what I'm going to be for her, an artist, until she leaves me with that asshole on the couch. That came to me in a dream too but there was something else that causes the problem and it's not me precisely but what hides in the basement of this log cabin. Something waiting to burst at the seams and destroy everything good and meaningful in a life when everything is okay, because then I would be lying because as humans we always wonder what's on the other side of the bedroom door, or under our bed, or in the palm read or the tonsil pulled waiting for the all you can eat ice cream. 

We strive to know, as Freud lived his life in a realization that the most important part of life and living is continuous self logic. So when she woke up, I went downstairs and got her a joint from the pot head guy and she waked and baked and got all warm and fuzzy under the covers and I asked her to read what I wrote during the night and she told me 5 minutes. And I waited and she smoked the joint and I just got high off the fumes and we giggled. I handed her the two pages and she read them. This, this, this is what she read: