dreams

In the sanctity of my dreams, I meet myself sometimes. My wants get exposed.

From a book he was reading, "The people delay the inevitable, we're all put here to scream."

My neck was in his hand, looking over his shoulder. In contrast to what was being said, there was another exercise in going against the nature of pain and suffering.

He had made me want him, with my neck in his hands.

Where did it go?