'The lad's so scrawny, a slip of a boy, eyes of a basset hound... A gal visits him by night, one such with stilts. Don't know what she chews on. Isn't he ashamed?' Prudes next-door are slandering.

I imagine: as if a couple from a Gothic painting - arms spindly, bodies out of proportion. Willy-nilly they both settle themselves in my head. The images are seeping into my mind with no control from my side. Artistic, I muse.

Their gawky, bony bodies are moving in an even rhythmic manner. Parched lips, closed eyes, lids tingling. Their hands slipping pass the neck, verging on the shoulder blades, the nails clawing at the skin. The girl's nudging little bristols are like sour apples. Keeling over, stretching out the slender legs, crooking the toes with pleasure, they are panting. Running up, suspending. The gal's wailing. The lad's keeping himself manly even though the boyish body seems to be breaking in the instant...

It's an immodest way of thinking about seen or heard people. It's a vile method of creating a story, writing a pseudo biography from the tiny teeny slips of mind. Really, it's not thinking about the people at all and it's not their stories in the end. It works as dreams -- the things you find in the realm are the ones you fear or wish the most.