Angels Make Contact

My little ole brain is working triple-time this week. The dreams are beyond insane. I can't even believe the freaking people showing up in them. It's like everyone I ever had a conversation with in my life and then twice as many people that I've never laid eyes on before. It's exhausting. I wake up more tired than when I went to bed, if that's possible. I think I need to be writing. I think that's what this is all about. I need to write a story. I'm just so freaking busy, it's hard to find time. I've fallen off my schedule, need to find my way back to 5:30 mornings.

My dream boyfriend is back. The wiry one with the long black hair. If I ever run into this guy in real life I think I will faint. I'm hoping he's not a drug dealer. In the dreams it's hard to tell what he does. He might be a mechanic. Or he could be an artist, like a potter or something. It seems like I thought he was a painter at one time. He works with his hands. They're long and bony and rough and powerful. His hands are always pivotal in the dreams. He's very intense and . . . slippery. He seems almost to glide from one place to another, snakelike, only sexy. He doesn't say much verbally, but his non-verbal communication is killer. He says everything in the way he touches my face and presses his hand into the small of my back. Maybe he doesn't speak English? I dunno. He's been showing up in my dreams all week. The dreams are never about him, he's just there in the setting. We live together. He's just part of my life, part of the window dressing for all my dreams. It's a little weird. I've been dreaming about this guy, who as far as I know doesn't exist anywhere outside of my imagination, off and on for almost 10 years now. Maybe he's the one I should be writing about.

Mood: sleepy
Drinking: coffee, brewed, black
Listening To: blackmath, white stripes
Hair: silk soft