From: st3uy@rosie.uh.edu Subject: salt culture. Date: Tue Mar 28 20:47:00 MET DST 1995 salt culture. he was stuck in the only room he'd ever been in. sealed by gasket and pressure behind a half ton door. alive in the middle of an abondoned ice rigger; but he didn't know that part. all he could hear was the drone and tempo of a rusted pipe, its thud and brush against the outer hull, dangling from a rope half eaten by barnacles <their slow ascent up the line>. the wire was all that allowed him a way out; he pulled it from the wall. touching it to his tongue. <fugue> not so much a dream as tasting a female through the shock. i couldn't decide if that was it, how i got my fix. at least that is what i could call it, what allowed me to remember. i only learned from the stack of magazines left by my side; i only learned from that which was within my reach, the other cords and blackened strands of tape holding near the wall wouldn't allow me to reach the other magazines. i had nothing within my stretch to fasten a gripper or other device for grabbing, why i turned to the wire. i know my idea of others' dreams is shallow, my wants and wishes, very unfocused. nonlinear in the fashion of the commercials i read between the pages. should i look like that? i have know way of knowing how to be that way, that portion of flesh about my arms unable to tighten. but it's the girl i desire, the one in the commercial for vr. i can only assume it's her every time. i know it's her beccause her eyes are always covered, the black box around her face. she's different in every commercial, except for the eyes. it's her lips i want to encase. <euguf> his hands shake, the afteraffects of low voltage pumped from walled off generator subsiding. he doesn't dream for the momentary flush of water from his system, he knows the cords take something from him, the way the salt breaks from his skin every time. he brushes it from his brow and from the base of his palm. he'll wait for another minute.