Dreams Denied

A rich, peaty brown, nearly black, with fibrous cilia. The wipe was surprisingly wet. I believe the only dump of the day has earned the much sought after moniker introduced by Hiroko in later spring 2004：“モイスチャダンプ”or “moisture dump. The wipe transferred at one moment to the ribbed surface of my pointer finger, saturating the pad with an off-green aqueous solution. I hastened to the nearest sink after the excursion proved to be complete and washed myself with “yes clean oil.” The sink area struck me as preternaturally festive. I made a note to myself as follows: “the impressive range of grooming products available at this moment in time rivals the archaic diversity present in many submarine seamounts.” I thought to write this down, but knew the image would remain in my mind. Divergent colors and shapes, pimpled containers and smooth aluminum shafts hermetically sealed to protect the spongy humors inside. Before leaving the bathroom I considered giving each a pump or a squirt or a dollop, but worried that the combination of so many disparate solvents might irritate my sensitive skin even further than the fecal remnants kidding in the cracks of my fingerprint. I left the bathroom slightly disappointed, the dream of swimming in a tub of hair gel with coconut oil coursing between my relaxed butt cheeks and heavenly ointments lubricating my flanks squashed by that same reasonable faculty that questions all my dreams.