When I woke up today, it was in interruption to a dream I was having: I was sitting in a restaurant kitchen, straddling a wooden bench over in the corner. It was a busy kitchen, with waitstaff and cooks bustling back and forth and orders being yelled out.
In this dream, I was straddling the bench, and a pillow. I was masturbating with the pillow, while the restaurant was in the middle of the dinner rush. And it was just starting to work....
Crazy, right?
So here's a scenario to ponder:
What if the only books published were those made up of people's dreams? People's crazy dreams made up with thousands of pieces of their lives, along with the millions of ways that human emotions are translated and transformed: our fears, our doubts, our anger and our joy. Think of the craziest dream you've ever had (if you can remember one) and imagine that craziness copied and twisted and skewed in millions of other ways.
Imagine that library.
KR
