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A BOOK OF DREAMS

Drape an inky black filter all over the night shoot, creating awful shadows with lives of their own, obedient to the whim of gravity. The chilling thunderstorm explodes. The rattle and hum of neon tubes in parlour windows. The copper tabernacle of a drug store. Ceremonial garb dripping damp and claustrophobic tightness. Here in the rain overlooking the five star restaurant he owned, you can hear everything at a super amplified volume.

She had attended all his bullfights in the provincial towns where they grew up together. They were both only children, treating each other as their respective brother and sister until high school shamelessly tore them apart. This was her first time out of Falengo. She decided she would do anything, with anybody, to get close to him again. Over the last fourteen years of his absence she had been resident in a prison of soft focus fantasies constantly thinking about what may have happened to his adult body in the bullring. The bone growth stretching him to manly proportions. The thick scar tissue under his ribs. The line of life across a thigh. The hardness of his muscles. She wondered if he could still dislocate certain joints to get himself into superdeformed postures of arousal. She wondered how much the kind, lively, young boy had matured.

She often CinemaScoped him with a Vaseline lens mastered, helpless to her whim. She would stand straight as a pole with her naked breasts jutting forth and he would fury around her in a snuffling sweat of rage, his tongue all swollen blue. A lethal horn grazing her naked thigh, slightly nicking the skin in a powerplay of razor’s edge versus sheer fall on the sword hurt. He would swing around, digging up the arena with his hooves, the wisp of hair at his forehead alive like black treacle.

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