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Hollow-Holler

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December 16, 2009 - 12:20

When I am in this condition (wanton with no relief on the near enough horizon), my dreams are burdened with images of sexual chagrin (last night I had a vibrator with a skull shaped tip and a coffin shaped caddy), I have physical paroxysms while in the first stages of sleep, and uncomfortable, sporadic murmurs low in in my torso. Also, everything I hear becomes a euphemism. In short, I become a vulgar, subconscious creep.
And so for Christmas, I wish for:
"A hundred innocent pleasures, that bring no pain or remorse."
In my mind, this narrows it down almost exclusively to sounds, (the last note of a music box before it dies in the middle of a melody), things to touch (old old velvet, a tub of silt and water), smells (cedar, wet fur, a half clean head of hair), and of course, the Laughter of a Child.

And I want them all at once.