[montsnmags]

I've been having...well you know that dream where you're dressed to the grey-scale nines in black-and-white movie mode, and you're on the town with The Loved One or Adrian or some other character who is the aggressive to your passive, both of you guiding the arms of two delightful dames who look remarkably like a non-naive Audrey Hepburn and Auntie Mame/Rosalind Russell and they're simply accomplices in your starring celebrity appearances or you're accomplices in theirs because it's the style of the time (or the silence of at least) and after drinks and late you go back to your house for after-drinks drinks and the two beauties leave in the requisite front-door old-style flash-bulbs of paparazzi that cements the machinated mythology but it's not important it's just the style of the time and you start scratching at your arm and you notice that your flesh puckers down like a navel in a fat man's belly or a piece of pinched dough and there are more of them all over you as you feel up your arm and across your chest and down your legs and as you casually take off your clothes with a sigh of inevitability the greyscale movie-tones fade away to the ghastly reality of colour and the puckers are as inflamed and slightly weepy as one would expect and kind of burning and if you look close you can see minute white dots which at first seem like pimples but white-white and as you watch they grow a little like puff-ball mushrooms but white-white and they grow and unfurl and they're white-white and beautiful like speeded-up fiddle-head ferns unfurling in fast-motion like you see on the telly but white-white but still beautiful ferns and they unfurl and grow beyond a palm's width and beyond a hand's width and they're white-white-white and beautiful and moving and hypnotic and the tips of their tendrils are now reaching other parts of your body but not touching each other and their white-white where it touches sinks ever so gently and shallowly just into the surface of your skin so you're marked with white-white tattoos of ferns but they're still rooted to those red, doughy puckers and where they've now attached themselves in their white-white tattoos they begin to pull back like anemones towards their centre and they continue to unfurl and wrap around parts of your body and sink and pull and then the skin and meat begin to be torn away as the white-white ferns pull away and back to the puckers and they wrap you and there's snapping as they've enfolded and and are pulling your bones and meat and skin and viscera and eyes and nails and face apart with their white-white so white-white beautiful ferns and drag it all back like anemones white-white anemones to to those puckers so that the body can ingest itself perhaps(?) but as usual you wake up just before that happens, which is nice, but those ferns those white-white ferns growing from the diseased and weeping puckering of your diseased flesh were so beautiful and so-white-white-white but you're so glad you're awake now...
...and it's 3am, and you play with your iPod until 4am to try smother it in your mind and you can get back to sleep...
~sigh~