dreamland typhoid nice. im dreaming again. without the guide... hmm. too bad. dreamland hasn't changed much since i left though. 000901 ... For sure! i don't wanna wake up, but i have to. I need to win the lottery. poop. 001211 ... kiwibird there's a movie playing in front of me, and one behind me, one below, one above, one on every side. ten soundtracks fly along at once while i walk past a perfume shop next to the fish-stall and get a whiff of a massage. with a rip and a tear, reality flips, and i'm alone on a green hill, staring at a yellow flower as it swallows me whole and nostalgically ponders about the lack of salt. it longs for salt. 030824 ... ferret i'm trappen in a spherical mirror. all around me i'm surrounded by myself, every different side of me that there is. is here. now. everything that i've kept inside is here. now. here for me to examine, keep, or discard. every aspect of my life, but then i wake up 030824 ... werewolf johnny used his arm for a pillow, too tired to adjust the painful angle of his neck. the room around him was filled with the strange meshing of shapes into one darkness, one temporary and retractable insignificance. people passing in coded whispers and cars and the card table he had set up in his room all lost their boundries. in a drift to sleep so blurring it felt like drunkedness, he thought lazily of his failures, they kept him from the forgetfulness like a dim light from another room. he wondered why they were always so much more important than any success. why was the memory of his first kiss, or of learning to ride a skateboard, so dull and flat, a cliff notes version of his life. and yet he remembered everytime a girl dimissed him without even knowing, or everytime a teacher used him as an example, the details of their faces exaggerated into permanent sneers, their eyes always beautiful and away from him. he remembered everytime someone made fun of his father for looking like he never showered without knowing the funny things his father could say or the way he'd push him in a swingset when he was younger and he remembered how he'd laugh a dishonest laugh with them because they were friends, and friends don't have to stay like fathers do. when his father wasn't around anymore, he felt a new failure. and yet he'd never pity those people, friends or teachers, he'd wonder if they were right to stop judgement where they did. and he inevitably would think of kira. he was always a little worried around her. he couldn't breathe around her without tempering it, making it look this calm or that intense. and all of this thinking was tiring. maybe he should just get out now while the stakes weren't too high. if she never knew him, he could just say she never knew. but if she did know him, how could he look at that, how could he know that someone who agrees with him so much on what is good, does not think he's good. and would he still agree with her? maybe it was more complex than that, a bunch of rules rather than one rule, and nobody was good for everybody. but...his thoughts were now at the level where to answer those questions would require waking, sitting down, confronting a feeling of blankness, and searching outside for some certain and familiar way of looking at this confusion. instead, he drifted into dreaming of his first kiss, and the swingset in that one playground, and the russian national anthem. and he figured, why wait on other people, they will or they won't, they are or they aren't, might as well be ready for either. and he fell asleep as he wondered which he was ready for now. 030824 what's it to you? who go blather from