Two jaunts into the ether not helping. The voices enjoy sleepy time too well. My bouts of insomnia attempt to starve them. They snuck on in during last night's trip to the land of Nod.

Starting from the unfuzzy part. Wearing a Tang colored apron. Hasty pace through the echoing conduits of a landscaping dome vaulted complex. I have a job to do, and it requires blood, sweat and tears. The place appears to have gathered unrelated structures together. Combination Betty Crocker airport, smarmy Parisian Henry Miller train depot, paisley plastic nu wave retail mall and a warehouse shopping center for the do it yourselfers. Each section soldered together with twisting spacial anomaly black metal.

Since I can't recall the shadowing first chapters of the dream I am unsure. However, sinking feelings say that Baby Sis and other family members were dogging my heels for most of it. She's on my trail, having a hard time keeping up. She's begging and insisting. It's driving me to distraction. I bare my teeth and tell them all to back off. My body trembles more ferociously with each of their attempts to reach me.

A reverse spinning crystalised silver clad architectural slide appears. I toss Baby Sis into the contraption. It sucks her backwards. The top is an oscillating horn gauge puzzle for dismounting. She is unsuccessful and falls off the side of the world.

I find myself on a ramp cliff covered in scuffed ebon rubber. I face what I believe is my most dominant alterego made flesh. He looks as if he was designed by Jhonen Vasquez. Constantly parroting morphing into golden era film stars. He keeps attacking me. I try to pin his throat to the floor. Each assualt he bites with needle sharp teeth into my calf, the meaty section of my palm and the nape of my neck. Quickly it no longer is impishly playful, his eyes turn murderous. He cackles as I try to strangle and snap his spine. I scream for help. A baseball capped, canary yellow polo shirted security guard peers over the edge above me, fingering his coil wired ear wig.

I wake up. Paralysed in fetal position, sheets bound in my legs. My heart is trying to break free of my breast plate. Every vein and artery tugs at my face with each pulse. I whisper myself down from cardiac arrest. Shaking leaf. Takes a couple hours of shocked twitching staring at my ceiling before I can pass out again.

Now I am partying in a dark metro meat market. My friend Grace is fervently tit fucking some handsome stranger in the couch lounge. A crackhead from my midwest past is at my side. Tall skinny blonde, Carrie. She is clad in semi-revealing haute couture black silk. She grabs me by my belt and hustles me back to our bar seats.

I make a detour to the pisser. I open what I thought was the male symboled door. Chicks checking their war paint in the mirror. Open the other and it is more a ladies room than the other. So, I theorise that impatient ladies decided to use the men's room. Rush in and drop trou.

The two urinals, slender and sqeezed in tightly abutted to each other. Push meatheads aside to make it there. As I unleash junior, another full bladder sidles up on my thigh, breathing heavy. Random arms come in from all directions, inches away from my face, to grab squirts of liquid soap. The dispenser is placed just behind the flush peddle. I glance to my right, an unlit shower room has a smoky dance party going on. Drain the lizard enough to escape. A limp Puerto Rican boy in a vomit covered wife beater has his suspenders wrapped around the doorknob, his lifeless body dangling from it. I roughly open the door, disrupting his health, to the great consternation of his high haired chica.

I escort Carrie to the curvy teleportation veranda. She smirks and plants lipstick on my cheek. I smudge the winemark as I hurriedly head back to the bar.

The bar itself is a wide towering stairwell. Lit up like a ridiculous Fred Astaire musical set. Booze to the left. A Dominican chick with greasy permed hair is sucking bright congealed blood off of the bar. She smiles with claret clogging her teeth. Her pal, who I recognise as Coral from MTV's Real World, reclaims her stool in between us. I say "Hi Coral". She squeals, and say's "shut up spanky". Apparently we know each other from back in the day.

We begin double macking on a curly innocent girl. We insist on testing her undergarments with our teeth. She announces that she is not wearing any. Coral and I high five animated, and we each make the international sign language for blowjob.

Awake again. No pulminary emergency this time. Plenty of blood rushing to my package however. Puptent casting shade in the afternoon sun. More confused as to why I am aroused than I can get over to wack the mole. And we find ourselves here. Me, still not fully functioning, and writing my insanity. I could make the academic career of some psychology research scientist. Full chunky textbook on spanky.