Not even the faintest wisps of dream survived my waking today, I'm afraid.
So I am compelled to open the vaults and share a previous dream from way back, in the form of a love-letter to my Symbiote. In our first cycle of courtship, I made a gift of every nightmare.
This a minor classic from my oneiric hit-list. Stay tuned for the sexy spoken word version, like Barry White on bad acid.
Hopefully, a harvest of fresh hauntings will be available on the morrow (or after my next nap).
"Red shoe fever.
A huge gymnasium on the outskirts of some major city.
There's an outbreak of some hideous disco disease. Once you catch it, it incubates in your network of nerves until it hears/feels/senses music. Then you have to dance to maintain your humanoid physique. if you stop dancing, your bones melt and your organs slide together and cluster at the core of your new body. Your features and angles recede into this pulpy, throbbing meatbag that once was you.
your holes close but your pores open wide to suck the air in, giving the meatbag a spongelike texture at
every inhalation. Then the pores close with the exhale and you dribble a viscid effluvium. the outer
rim of the gymnasium is equipped with those japanese dancing games where you must match your moves to a cgi dancer on-screen at faster and faster speeds. The moves get progressively more complicated. The contagion likes to be challenged and entertained. If you pause at all in non-rhythmic fashion, the mutation begins and who you were melts into a suffering meatbag.
Every dancing booth is occupied. Tinny techno breakbeats erupt from every console. There
must be a few hundred of them, but the beats are in perfect congruence. closer to the center of the gym,
the two of us and several other scientists (in lab coats and hello kitty surgical masks) are making the
rounds amongst those who have fallen victim. A few of these monsters have an eyeball or a finger or a few toes or a nostril or a testicle braking the surface of their veiny, tormented flesh. a protuberance,
apparently, is a sign of cureability.
Those who can't be cured would be better off dead.
That's our job, under the flickering, bug-hungry fluorescent bulbs. We're euthanizing meatbags. despite the giddy techno soundtrack., the overall mood is solemn. funereal, almost. not for us, though. discreetly, we sneak mischievous glances of sinister complicity at each other. A mask on your glamourpuss casts those electric icicle eyes into higher relief. none of the others can know that this epidemic is making the two of us horny. We're injecting mercury into those growths who are beyond hope, exchanging goo-goo glances, waiting for our shift to end so we can go fuck in the room where they keep the free weights.
Waking up slowly, I imagine an additional mutational layer to the disease, finding in the midst of our mingling that we, too, will melt into shapeless meatbags if we ever stop fucking.
And you know what, Dr. X? i think i'd be okay with that."