oh, just blogging like its 2003

Dreams of felt being run across my face.  In a felt board forest?  The trees; great childish greens and dark browns.  "Autumn" written in great big felt lettering above the sky.  Drone sounds, perhaps old men making Om's?  Old men:  old yogis.  Beards no doubt flowing, white and grey.  Mostly white near the ends, gray around the mouth, the chin.  Maybe inside the Om's sounds, whispers of words.  In the dream they are probably telling me my life objective; what is the meaning of this?  If you try to hard to hear it it just goes away so you focus on the forest.  The sun is a triangle of satsuma; it is Louisiana after all.  All the one's brought in during the fall.  Everyone has a tree, no one knows what to do with all of them.  You can only eat so much citrus.  Juice falling all over your chin, making your keyboard stick to your hands.  Dreams.  Later you try to turn the felt into women.  It is a dream after all.  Rosy lips puckered in rum filled pleasure.  The blush from too much drink; heat.  Their faces turn to demonic grimaces.  Its impossible to hold on.   The grimaces turn to knives.