God damn you half japanese girls.
based upon a dream
I wake up on the same scratchy couch that has padded my head many weekends past. As I breathe in the dusty air and slowly stretch my stiff lower back, I notice that its the still middle of the night. My jaw hangs loose as I wonder what could have awoken me from such sweet slumber. Perhaps I'm too hot. The quilt sleeping bag I use in place of a blanket keeps my legs on the verge of sweating, but, beyond this, I'm perfectly comfortable. Perhaps it was the television buzz. I set the sleep timer, so the Idiot Box is standing solemnly silent. My train of thought derails as a noisy car, minus a muffler and likely a spoiler-laden gas-guzzler, tears down the narrow road outside. Its bright headlights briefly illuminate this living room by casting wavy, shadowed light the length of the body sized windows throughout the room for a few blinding seconds. When this brief barrage, that revealed the white wicker tables and the pink plush easy chair, is over, I realize the reason I was rustled from rapid eye movement; the dining room light is on. The soft, white light pours over from the adjacent room onto my cold, hardwood floor. Its far too early for grandmother to be up. I cautiously crawl to the cusp of the couch and peek around blue recliner to see the dining room table. I'm shaken with shock by what I see sitting at the table, that's draped in a cloth I hardly recognize. There is a dark skinned man in dark clothes with dark gloves sitting with both arms on the table, palms flat in front of him. The dark eyes in his, perfectly shaven, dark head are staring deep into mine. Before I can breathe out, I'm crouched on the floor; securely subdued from his ghastly gaze. I find myself, with bent knees, advancing towards the kitchen; my legs in perpetual motion. On the verge of the carpeted floor, I find the man is towering above me and the only thing I find the air in my lungs is useful for is to ask "Why are you here?" His chilly reply is "Because of your father." Confused, I bleat, "But she loves my father. He's her son!" At that the terrible tyrant trumpets out a equally tyrannous laugh. A dry laugh that me cold all over, especially my feet. I try to stand up but cant see to straighten my grid-locked limbs. He then extends his hand as if we had been apart for some time and he needs to re-make my acquaintance and asks me "Are you innocent?" I immediately loose all emotion and feel the blood running out of my face with the velocity of light as I coldly reply "No" and extend my hand to his. He casts me a smirk a mile wide as he lifts my hand to his mouth. He chomps down on my left middle finger so hard my knees buckle, and I welcome the waiting blackout that rescinds the illusion.
I promise I didn't do any drugs before this dream.
I wake up on the same scratchy couch that has padded my head many weekends past. As I breathe in the dusty air and slowly stretch my stiff lower back, I notice that its the still middle of the night. My jaw hangs loose as I wonder what could have awoken me from such sweet slumber. Perhaps I'm too hot. The quilt sleeping bag I use in place of a blanket keeps my legs on the verge of sweating, but, beyond this, I'm perfectly comfortable. Perhaps it was the television buzz. I set the sleep timer, so the Idiot Box is standing solemnly silent. My train of thought derails as a noisy car, minus a muffler and likely a spoiler-laden gas-guzzler, tears down the narrow road outside. Its bright headlights briefly illuminate this living room by casting wavy, shadowed light the length of the body sized windows throughout the room for a few blinding seconds. When this brief barrage, that revealed the white wicker tables and the pink plush easy chair, is over, I realize the reason I was rustled from rapid eye movement; the dining room light is on. The soft, white light pours over from the adjacent room onto my cold, hardwood floor. Its far too early for grandmother to be up. I cautiously crawl to the cusp of the couch and peek around blue recliner to see the dining room table. I'm shaken with shock by what I see sitting at the table, that's draped in a cloth I hardly recognize. There is a dark skinned man in dark clothes with dark gloves sitting with both arms on the table, palms flat in front of him. The dark eyes in his, perfectly shaven, dark head are staring deep into mine. Before I can breathe out, I'm crouched on the floor; securely subdued from his ghastly gaze. I find myself, with bent knees, advancing towards the kitchen; my legs in perpetual motion. On the verge of the carpeted floor, I find the man is towering above me and the only thing I find the air in my lungs is useful for is to ask "Why are you here?" His chilly reply is "Because of your father." Confused, I bleat, "But she loves my father. He's her son!" At that the terrible tyrant trumpets out a equally tyrannous laugh. A dry laugh that me cold all over, especially my feet. I try to stand up but cant see to straighten my grid-locked limbs. He then extends his hand as if we had been apart for some time and he needs to re-make my acquaintance and asks me "Are you innocent?" I immediately loose all emotion and feel the blood running out of my face with the velocity of light as I coldly reply "No" and extend my hand to his. He casts me a smirk a mile wide as he lifts my hand to his mouth. He chomps down on my left middle finger so hard my knees buckle, and I welcome the waiting blackout that rescinds the illusion.
I promise I didn't do any drugs before this dream.