listen to it rain and count all the colors i can see. i had bacon for breakfast.

stream of consciousness? hardly. more of a brightly-color, hallucinated drug fairy whose wings i licked to see her homeworld. it was just barely a kissing game, but more like a lesson that required me to humble myself to her jokes and image-poking. boy or girl, man or woman, masculine or feminine, dominant or submissive, by force or by persuasion, i always giggle with her and roll through her hay, then return to my war time, tasting her memory with my mind. was i her? am i her now? or am i merely the object of a drive that i don't understand from another place that i can't go? that would make us both gods. maybe i'll sleep here after all.