I really don’t recall the exact progression but it did feature an old flame. Someone who is very often forgotten behind a veil of things that actually matter. She’s a tall girl of my own blood. That is she is Slavic though there is some unfortunate Anglo-Celtic admixture. You must excuse me. I’ve grown a touch xenophobic with all the naked hatred of my kin alive in your Western media.
The purpose of this post is of course the escapism of dreams. So I should perhaps stray from the wearying prosaicness of bigotry.
We were in some hall. Which was very reminiscent of some old rail stations I had frequented as a boy. There was some commotion among familiar faces and much in the way of banter.
I approached a figure in riding attire. And immediately recognized her gangly frame and large liquid eyes. The autumnal hair and vacant expression is unmistakable.
I approached with a smirk, “Why are you dressed like a dyke?”
Funny how the flavor of the waking world works itself into more permanent realms…
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