4 January 2020

Most of the dream is worth forgetting. There was a boy with curly brown hair (when I woke up I thought of the song Do You Love an Apple), he and I were going to be sent to a sort of domestically-oriented labor camp, we had a night, we were in my mother’s house in the place she keeps old records, rolling around on the floor, I wanted to enjoy this night before a new, distressing environment, he wanted to wait, pleaded angrily with me to wait, to keep my hands away, it was too much for him, I caressed him, kissed the palm of his hand, the skin of his hand was coarser than I expected, the lines of the palm deep, feeling these lines with my lips, reading something inscrutable there, he grunted with an irritated animal urge, rolled me over and tried to fuck me, I shoved him off, I was annoyed he could not enjoy my affections without being stupidly roused to rut, he was annoyed by my attentions without culmination, I brought my face close to his, I brushed my eyelashes against his cheek, tangled my eyelashes with his, the room was silent as our eyelashes touched in this way.