Rebecca Has a Dream

I am Rebecca Johannson and I love dreaming. Even more than climaxing. Well... Actually, dreams have such a particular flavor of romance. Melting the ideals of one's day into vivid sensations of every night. Taking a desire and an image for a ride. Gratifying the wanton from the afternoon with delightful nectars of an aging night.

A dream is an incursion...

"Mrs. Johannson, may I have your attention for a minute please."

...An incursion raiding on roads thinner than a spider web...

"Yes, Mr. Johannson. You may."

My husband is a nudist. "And a hippie," your mind might guess ahead of yourself. Sorry to disappoint (this is what happens to prejudice), but his job (and vocation) as a Colonel in the French Foreign Legion has demanded a strict dress code of him. When not on vacation, that is.

This new vacation of ours keeps going on for years.

"Mrs. Johannson, expecting that you had a good night sleep, I wish to inform you about our younger neighbors across the fence. If you don't mind."

"Not at all. Please do."

Every nudist has a voyeur stance. Easy to figure, no?

"Doris has decided, this morning, to water her garden in her birthday suit. I loved peeping at her for over an hour. More precisely for seventy-two minutes."

"She's a peach, that Doris thing of yours. Plus, on these scorching days, wearing nothing is the best choice. Think that I'll have to copy her. Wondering why didn't I make my mind until today. It's the end of June already."

Determined to begin the day by putting my first resolution into practice, I throw the soft and white satin blanket to the middle of our bed. Looking for my slippers, I forget to grab my night gown. On purpose.

"Do you intend to walk nude today, Mrs. Johannson?" Asks Mr. Johannson.

"Yes, I do, Alain. If Doris can, then I can? Hope that you won't mind my cellulite too much."

"Ah, pas du tout. It's regressing, by the way. The soup of enzymes, together with our regular sexercising, are showing good results. A propos, sex! You wouldn't be surprised to learn that staring at the silhouette of Doris has stirred something between my legs. Therefore, Mrs. Johannson, may I politely invite you to dance with me?"

Cute and romantic, with gentle moves, my man opens the phonograph, lays the vinyl record of Maurice Ravel's Bolero on its turntable, positions the cartridge on the edge and reverently turns around to hold my hand in his palm. Kissing the ring on my finger, his other hand surrounds my waist.

Vaguely, the fingers drum over the skin on my left hip. I allow my breasts to dive shyly against his stomach. As the music grows, so the push. Touching the coarse hair on his chest with my chin, I stare up at him and say. "Dance me, Alain. Dance me."

He says nothing. A response may be the arm getting firmer down my back and around my waistline, or his penis escalating the hits on my tummy.

"Hey! You know how to beat the rhythm." I chuckle at him. He seems serious. I know that he is just pretending. Body language... And few decades of experience.

The Bolero grows on, filling the room.

He bends to kiss my mouth. To this, my pointer hurries up, sealing his lips. I had no time to wash my teeth this morning. I see surprise in his eyes, wondering about my unexpected resistance.

I make mine round, bigger and bluer (gotta compensate for the lack of eye contour) and my smile tacitly tells him to wait.

The Bolero grows on, filling the room, the house.

I decide that now is the time for my finger to unseal his lips. Allowing him to keep looking at me, in silence and no surprise, kissing his abdomen, I commence a descent, without losing eye contact. In spite of his age, the musculature feels intact to my lips. Stumbling over two known scars, the tip of my tongue nears his pubic forest. As always, my brain sends distress signals: pubic hair, even if trimmed, is a definite turn off. So I sniff a deep breath in a desperate quest for the scent of his balls, and maybe some seminal fluid (leftovers from his earlier peeps over the fence). Feeling the hormones in the air, my brain switches the 'hate all hair' button position over to the 'love your sperm' spot. This is what I want: to enjoy giving him a fellatio in the morning.

"I know that you've masturbated at Doris. Wondering if you managed to come..."

"Only once."

"Mhm.. Yes, I can taste the remains."

Speaking to him, I continue to fix his eyes. I do this because I want him to come as fast as possible (you'll see why). And, because he just emptied his balls an hour ago, my job seems more difficult to accomplish. Never lose eye contact when you wish to own the man you're fellating.

"How many times have you ejaculated after eating that beef casserole?"

"You mean, on Sunday?"

"Yes. We lunched with the Dawns. Doris cooked."

"Why do you need to know?"

"She's adding too much onion and garlic. Besides, it was red meat."

"And?"

"And it affects the taste of your sperm."

"And? Don't you like it?"

"I always do, even when it tastes like bleach. Guess that this is a brain matter: loving your semen."

"So?"

"Just curious. How many times?"

"Ah bon... Let me see... Sunday afternoon when..."

"That won't count."

"Okay then... Sunday night when watching Nina Hartley's lesbian encounters."

"That counts. So... one..."

"Yesterday morning, watching Doris over the fence."

"Two..."

"Yesterday evening, in your mouth..."

"Three..."

"And this morning, watching Doris."

"Four... Good. Interesting that I still can feel the heavy and soapy flavors."

"That's because I've eaten an onion, raw, yesterday evening."

"After dinner?"

"Yupp!"

Okay. This was our smalltalk: a relaxing balance to Ravel's Bolero tension building. Time to launch, my darling... The nonchalant finger of mine, followed shortly by a peer, breaks way into his anus, finds his spot (I have plenty of expertise in this field) and gently drums his prostate from the inside (keeping up with the rhythmical music as much as a finger immersed in an ass can hear and follow).

His penis turns to attention, his body begins to quiver. My lips and tongue seize the moment. I know how thin the timeline is. Climaxing is not the same with ejaculating, because he can climax just from the prostate, without sperm, no real ejaculation from the balls, but a tad of prostatic liquid, which is delicious nevertheless, but too little to count.

I want his sticky semen in my mouth. So I vacuum, as my tongue slaps his head, as my fingers press his prostate, as my palm plays with his balls. Up and down. Up and down.

His hectic moves have nothing to do with the music. His eyes, captive in mines, close. I bite in response. He opens them up, makes them big, almost as big as mine, and spurts a sugary stream, warming the roof of my mouth.

Siphoning his penis a few more times, losing eye contact because he cannot keep his head in the same position, I pull my fingers out of his butt and quickly stand up for a kiss.

Magnetized, he bends for the kiss, opens his mouth to receive my sticky tongue and the moderate load of his own semen. In his mouth. What's left of the snow ball, in my mouth, I hurry to swallow, now that I'm sure about the main load... and its final destination!

"Shall I make myself comfortable, Alain dear?" Ask I with my left hand still on his penis, while my right grabs his neck towards our bed.

He nods, follows and knees between my legs. I enjoy stretching my legs over the fine and silky white of the bed. It's a wonderful feeling.

He spills a couple of long drops. They stubbornly stick to his lips. I love watching!

Yes, he dives a bit more, to circle my clit and, kissing it, to let the semen free over my pussy.

Like a glue, an instant glue. His mouth unites with my vulva, his lips with my labia, his cheeks with my inner thighs. The tongue is doing her invisible work: slapping my clit like there's no tomorrow.

I don't wish to maintain eye contact now. I gaze at the ceiling. The Milky Way simulation, crystal clear by night, makes the surface above look like a dull shadow, speckled by light. Um, I forgot to turn the projector off. Never mind. There's a current heating my old backbone and climbing up to my torso, through my neck, to hit the jackpot.

What if I close my eyes and see... see Rolf? Sometimes I see Alain, but some other times I see Rolf.

What if?

And the current dissipates in my arms. Wasted chance of an early orgasm.

I open my eyes. Look at him. Sucking and slapping my clit with that untired tongue.

I moan a lengthy breath his way. He opens his eyes to stare in mine. Eyebrows asking.

"You are superb. Had a mild one, to warm me up. Carry on, my love, carry on." I respond, smiling and joking.

He confirms and begins to kiss my tendons, on both sides of my pussy. Then aiming for another smack, with a sound this time.

I close my eyes, determined to never ask the 'what if' question...

A new flux of electricity builds up around my inner clitoris, invading my tummy, conquering my breasts, railing my spine, arresting my neck, grimacing my face and exploding my brains to myriads of fireworks.

Wait a minute! These fireworks in my head are gray. No color in them. Darn analysis. Ignore! Rebecca, ignore! Focus! Or better don't focus! Live the moment!

Love these moments. Would like to find a way to prolong them. But the doc said that we must balance. Alain says that we've gotta keep the measure. Not to exaggerate. Avoiding abuse. Nice words, practical and well intended. But of no use to me right now. I'm surfing on the foamy waves of the Nirvana Ocean. I'm out of myself.

And there they are: the black and white fireworks. Gosh, they're not even gray anymore. White dots and strings on a black canvas. No shades.

Can't remember seeing something similar in any of my previous orgasms. Can't figure what... But... But... Hey! Is this you, Rolf?

The white fireworks, raining down the black velvet, are shaping the face of Rolf. Impossible!

I rush to open my eyes. Looking ahead, like a desperate woman, I see Alain feasting on my pussy. My spasms didn't stop his diligent exploration of the same spot. How fascinating this is for men: they explore exactly the same tiny clit, over and over, and it feels like traveling across faraway continents. A world of its own. A world in a world.

He opens his eyes and our looks intersect. He smiles. I distinguish some sticky stuff on his nose... and it's not his semen (that should be down on the sheets by now).

Thoughts vanish rapidly once I close my eyes again. His tongue feels a bit nervous. His hands grab my nipples. I contort. My bladder gets loose. The current of bliss short circuits straight to my head. The fireworks are colored this time. So many colors that I can't count, or name, or describe...

The Bolero grows on, filling the room, the house, the universe!

---

"You are such a wonderful, and wet, lover, Alain chéri. Come... Come up, here, rest on mommy's breasts."

He obeys my words and, with a smirk under the fresh naturals on his face, he plays with my areolae, carefully avoiding to touch the nipples. Up to some accidental point. When I feel the spasmodic current again. Unbearable.

"Stop! Stop or I'm gonna pee!"

"Again?"

"What do you mean, again? That's no pee on your face."

"I know. I still savor it. Delicious..."

"Gotta pee." I excuse myself after few more minutes of cuddling.

"Ah, Rebecca, could you please fix the pickup on your way?"

"Sure, no problem."

After soaping my hands, watering my face, I forget myself in the mirror. Counting the wrinkles. The crow's feet aren't going anywhere but the skin tone, cheeks and lip wrinkles seem a bit attenuated. Yes, this is the rejuvenating effect of a full body orgasm. No anti-aging cream on earth will ever beat that. Oh, it's about time to start my day. Where is my day cream?

When returning to the bedroom, I see that the bed has already been tidily made, the pickup cover is closed (oh my, I've said that I'll do that, but I forgot... it happens... all the time). And Alain is not there.

"Mr. Johannson, O!, Mr. Johannson! Where are you?"

"I am in the kitchen, Mrs. Johannson. Getting breakfast ready!"

"What do we have for breakfast?"

"Egg yolks baked in avocado halves, plus the Tuesday's smoothie."

"Shall I sort the supplements?"

"Please do. See you on the patio in five."

Sorting the pills took me one, so here I am, on the patio, in two, almost...

The sky is magnificent. A stork darts to cut the blue yet not the silence. Not even the wind dares to shiver the poplars edging the westward horizon. Midsummer reigns like a static beauty over our green plains.

"It's still burning hot, see the steam? Take care with the spoon... There you go... Bon appétit!"

"Merci, à toi aussi."

We eat slowly, taking our time. Sipping the smoothie from tall glasses. Gulping the pills.

Patiently, he waits until I finish and says. "I'll visit Magdalena today. Guy has got a week on leave and he asked me if I wish to meet him at his mother's place."

"Okay. Go. Send my best wishes to your son."

"I will."

"When do you think to come back?"

"By Monday morning, or afternoon. Depends on the winds."

My nudist man disappears in the house. Minutes later, he comes out wearing a yuppie suit. Mauve necktie. Still in my birthday suit, I accompany him to the helicopter.

"Love ya. Take care, Mr. Johannson."

"I will, Mrs. Johannson. Je vous aime."

Last kiss good flight, as I close the door, he opens the throttle on the collective. Five steps backwards, away from this annoying insect, will suffice for my safety. He gradually pulls the collective up for the dragonfly to take off and fly away.

I'm alone. The week is mine! Let us begin with a frugal shower and some lazy swimming in the pool.

---

Two hours and a half later. Noontime. I hate cooking. Besides, microwave ovens and ordering junk have never been an option. They'd kill me of a stealthy and ugly manner!

"Computer! Call Doris. Put her on the patio screen."

In seconds, I can see Doris in her kitchen, surrounded by pots of clay and various glass recipients. Wearing just a white apron.

"Hi Rebecca. How are you?"

"Hello Doris. Doing well. And home alone..."

"Would you mind joining us for lunch?"

"Not at all. Thanks for the invite. I'll be right there."

"In the kitchen, dear."

Walking through the tiny passage in our fence, I am there in no time.

"Doris, do you have a spare apron for me?"

"Ah, you wish to help me with peeling the garlic. Sure. Here."

Actually, I don't wish to peel any garlic. All I wanted is not to sit naked at the table and do nothing, while she is covered in something and getting lunch ready for me. So I pretend, as I knot my apron behind.

"The lilac colored ones, right?"

"Yes, they taste deeper and the cloves are a bit juicer."

Now she turns around to check the cabbage stew in the oven. Her apron has no jurisdiction over her buttocks. And she bends, unveiling what those cute cheeks have hold hidden when standing.

I try to focus on my hands squashing the cloves of garlic on a wooden plate.

"How's Don?"

"Working in the garage. As always."

"Ah, the teleportation device. How's that going?"

"Dunno. I can hardly make sense of all his tech talk."

"Science has its own slang. Like law, sports, sex, even the kitchen."

"You don't say. I've been reduced to sex and kitchen. The feeling is sub-mediocre. I can tell you."

"But you still have the writing, Doris dear."

"I do, I do. Guess that I'd go crazy without my laptop. You know what? Don has installed an interface between my laptop and the house computer. So, when I have an idea, all it takes is to speak it out, between a couple of tags he gave me. And voilà: what I've spoken gets written in a text file on my laptop. Groovy, don't you think?"

"Sounds great. I've peeled three cloves. Is this enough?"

"Er... No. Think that I'll need ten more. But don't bother. I'll squash them in no time."

"No, no, no. Let me do them."

"How's Alain doing?"

"On his way to Tuscany. Guy's on leave and Magdalena..."

"Has called him for a fuck, eh?"

"That is correct, my dear. Men love to fuck more than we do."

"To fuck and masturbate. I can tell."

"You know that he often peeps at you over the fence."

"Of course I do. I even wave him from time to time."

"Have you waved him this morning too?"

"I did because I was finished watering the garden yet he didn't seem to have finished himself. So I had to speed his masturbation up by posing, bending, biting my finger... You know, gestures that would bring him closer to a conclusion."

"Why did you do that?"

"Because I'm not comfortable leaving the voyeur unfinished. Especially Alain."

"Don knows?"

"Yes. I've asked him for advice. He taught me to tease more aggressively. Besides, have you noticed the huge mosquitoes as of late?"

"Yes. They don't bite."

"Because they're artificial! Don uses them as garden drones."

"For what purpose?"

"To capture video and audio footage which is stored on a server."

"And?..."

"And what?"

"The records. What's he doing with them?"

"Ah. Cutting and editing for my adult sites. No big deal."

"You mean... You mean that Alain appears on your adult sites?"

"Yes. Hasn't he told you?"

"I never asked."

"Now you know. You may ask him."

"I certainly will."

"Aren't you a bit jealous when he's visiting Magdalena?"

"Of course I am. She loves what I can't stand. Quite sad for me."

"Don't understand."

"Magdalena adores having a dick in her pussy. I can't stand that."

This statement of mine takes Doris by surprise. Closing the tap, wiping her hands, she rushes to sit at the table with me.

"Rebecca dear, are you saying that you can't stand intercourse?"

"I can't, Doris dear."

"But all the orgasms that we hear, quite often..."

"Clitoral. External. No intromission. My sex life is exclusively oral."

"And do you enjoy it to the fullest? You don't need..."

"...But Alain needs to fuck. And Magdalena gives him what I don't."

"Oh dear... So sorry to hear this. I did not know..."

"Now you do."

"Is he telling you how..."

"I never ask."

"I see."

"Smells good."

"What do you mean?"

"The cabbage stew! Cannot wait."

"Ah... Yes, guess so. An old recipe from Aunt Ethel. Don is enamored of it."

"Aunt Ethel has never followed culinary traditions. She used to tinker with the classic."

"Indeed. The traditional goes on pork. Aunt Ethel replaced it with beef, or poultry."

"Hah, hah. This goes without saying. But what I really love most in Aunt Ethel's recipes are the spices. No matter how hard I've tried to match them, I never succeeded. No idea how you make it."

Doris walks to the cabinets, draws a well worn brown booklet, brings it to the table and jumps amongst dog ears.

"See here, for instance. One tablespoon of red paprika, according to the original. See the +1/2 note added by Aunt Ethel? Makes it one and a half tablespoon."

"Makes it schärfer..."

"It does. But how much spicier? This is the chief question. We find the answer in the added 'half' of tablespoon. On a rainy day, you may want to make the extra half up to two thirds. But when the days are too stressing, one third would do. A recipe is no gospel, rather an emotional regulator."

"Made by Doris. Cooked with love."

"Learned the recipes from Aunt Ethel, don't forget!"

---

We lunched together, only the two of us (Don mailed from the garage that he's kept indefinitely by a running process and we'd better not wait for him).

"Delicious. Beyond words. What was the new addition?"

"Fennel! To sweeten up your day. Fresh from the garden. Picked it shortly after hearing the helicopter..."

"You're a good psychologist, Doris."

"No. Just a good listener, I hope."

"You know, Doris, I had a dream this morning. An unusual one."

"I'm all ears, Rebecca."

"Problem is that I have forgotten..."

"But you know that you had it. Any person? A name maybe?"

"Yes. Rolf, my first love."

"Anything else?"

"Frozen water and a wicked feeling."

"Why don't you say ice?"

"No idea."

"What makes this dream different? Compared to others."

"Like in?"

"Like in a correlation maybe. When I dream something at night and I can correlate with events that occur the next day, you know, it makes it different from meaningless dreams."

"Do you think that there are meaningless dreams?"

"Many, if not most of them. During the REM stage of sleep, your brain is busy moving data back and forth. According to some theories, pathways for memory and learning are formed in the brain as you dream. Rearranging the books in your library, the boxes in your garage..."

"...The dresses in your wardrobe, the shoes..."

"...And so on. Many dreams bear the same relevance."

"I see. But my gut tells me that this one means something. While Alain was giving me a few orgasms, I've seen the fireworks..."

"And you've produced the guttural sounds that I've heard from my backyard. Twice, I suppose."

"The second was accompanied by colorful and known images of fireworks. But the first has been a mystery in black and white. No shades of gray. Full black background and clear white dots and strings, drawing the profile of my Rolf, like emerging with the fireworks, and vanishing altogether."

"Do you recall seeing a similar artwork before? A sketch or something?"

"Never. I have his face, and body, in my mind. Have photos of him in my albums. All realistic, lively, colorful. Nothing like that. Told you that's an odd thing."

Doris tidies up the table, washes the dirty dishes in the sink, slices a pineapple with a device that I've never seen before (no blades), puts a carafe with two glasses of filtered tap water on the table, followed by two medium cups of coffee, sits back on her chair and hurriedly taps me on the wrist.

"I have an idea!" Her voice sounds naughtier than her playful eyes. "We'll commence with a sip of coffee and a slice of ananas." Captivated by her enthusiasm, I sip the sip and wolf the slice, sitting like a good schoolgirl and waiting for the next step.

Doris takes a longer, leisurely sip from the red polka dot retro coffee cup (I simply adore vintage stuff). Then she takes a medium pineapple cube in her mouth and chews... and chews... and chews... until she drives me crazy, I think. Swallowing the fruit, washing it down with a hurried mouthful from the tall glass of water, she commands: "Computer! Give me access to the attic cloud."

I have to turn my head left, about forty-five degrees, in order to properly watch the sizeable monitor hanging like a blackboard on the wall opposite to the kitchen windows.

"Access level management interface requires identification. Please provide your latest retina scan and palm prints. Thank you." Speaks the Terminator-like voice of the machine.

"Reference file DO937A," responds Doris while making two big eyes and holding her hands up, with palms opened for the scan.

"Second person identification missing. Access level management interface requires identification for the second person. Please provide your latest retina scan and palm prints. Thank you." This Terminator-thing in the wall has a good sense of observation. What on earth should I provide. I don't know.

"Just tell him this: RE937B; and behave like I did: big eyes, hands up!" Whispers Doris to me, clandestinely. So I speak.

"Reference file RE937B," with my hands up, palms opened to the monitor.

"First person logged in successfully. Second person registration accepted and confirmed by system administrator. Have a good day." Responds the cold device.

"Why did you give it Arnold's voice?" Ask I as the screen fills with a myriad of folders.

"Don has asked me about my preferences. I first said to synthesize his own voice. But he argued that it would sound creepy. So I opted for the Terminator, it's a meme already."

"And what's the voice that he has setup for the cloud interface in the garage?"

"Mine."

"Ain't that creepy?"

"To me it is. But he insisted on leaving it that way... CD 20070626... REC... FEED..."

Taken aback by the cryptic words and digits, I eventually realize that Doris is verbally navigating through folders.

"There's a lot of porn in your cloud." Dare I an observation.

"Where's a man there's porn. Such is the mind of man."

"Computer!" Say I. "CD DRN2007062605270639..."

To which the testosterone-laden voice responds. "Second person change directory command requires confirmation by first person. Grant or deny?"

"Grant." Speaks Doris.

Why is she blushing? We both know it, too well... Indeed, the mosquito drones have captured her watering the garden as my voyeur man was peeping, and masturbating, at her. She ended up by performing quite an erotic casual 'dance' for him to come. Ingenious how a drone focuses on his dick while the other ones capture her lascivious moves. The screen is divided in four: three cameras on Doris and one on Alain. He finally sprays the green bush... Oh, wait a minute...

"Is that a fennel bush?"

"Indeed, it is."

"Doris?? What have you done after the drones had left?"

"I left before them. You can see that in the feeds on the screen. But I know what you mean. The question should be: what have I done after the helicopter had left?"

"So you... You... collect my man's sperm to spice up your dishes?"

"Some of the times, I do." Her face is all crimson. She feels embarrassed down to her toes, I suppose.

I sip in silence, add a slice of pineapple to it, wash it down my throat with some water, and fix Doris in the eyes.

"Well dear, think that we're about to launch a new app this summer. I suggest spermlicious.com for the domain name, but of course that you, and your Don, will have a say in all of these. Anyway, I'll have to call the marketing girls on the matter. This is F.A.B.U.L.O.U.S. Since when have you gotten such a brilliant idea?"

Pouring herself the third glass of water from the carafe, drinking it nervously, Doris finds her words. "You like it? Really?"

"Sure I do. It's uncharted territory with a huge business potential. How did it come to you?"

"Over the years, I've noticed the succession of events. The helicopter departs, you alone in the house, bit depressed maybe. You had lunch with us, dinner, but there was still a lonely face on you... This early April, twas about noon, Alain sees me in the garden, naked, taking care of buds. He politely asks if I allow him to masturbate up on the ladder, while I just have to mind my own business. I agree. He comes in less than ten minutes. A record! Two hours later, I hear the helicopter and it dawns on me: let me see if there's any sperm left down on the hedge! And there it is, drops of his semen sticking to the leaves. I carefully collect the sticky leaves, bring them to the kitchen, use the sperm in my pâté de foie gras, throwing the leaves because they were not edible, and then invite you to dinner. No more lonely face! You..."

"I remember now. Delicious, or should I say spermlicious? I hurried home and, slowly but surely, masturbated myself into sleep." She laughs and continues.

"Told Don about all this, about the sea change I've noticed on you. He analyzed the situation, estimated the risks, established the boundaries and asked me to plant some spice plants around that fence. Why scrub the sperm off the leaves when you can eat spermed leaves, properly seasoned?"

"You two are a goldmine!"

"Well, can we return to searching after your dream, Rebecca?"

"Sure do. Sure do. How do we get ourselves out of this folder?"

"CD 20070626... REC... FEED... EXP..."

There's only one video file in this folder. The rest seems total gibberish to me. But, you know, untold treasures still hide under the sands...

"Gibberish," says Doris, "all this stuff goes beyond me. No clue what we're looking for around here. Wish to play the video file. It's the one logical move that I can see."

"Go on. Go on."

The video file begins with half of Don's reddish and unshaven face.

"For whomever is concerned. This is the readme-watchme.mp4 log file on project 'teleportation device.' See filename/dirpath to figure the date/time out... The orange has returned as juice. Again... Same bug as before. No clue... Physical teleportation doesn't seem to work. Out of the box... Neither for living beings nor for lifeless nature. So far... The issue may reside in understanding the consonantist psychology among minds... Mapping out a neural network of individual brains will most likely give us a lattice of the underlying reality, a set of knots to use as coordinates for physical teleportation... Tonight I'm gonna activate, for the first time, an interesting kind of antenna... Let's call it a mind mapper... See what gives... Fuck... I'm afraid to sleep tonight... Let's watch some porn... Nah... Better make some GIMP art... hm... boring... How about ASCII artwork? For the sake of the good old days... Yes... A picture of Doris in ASCII... Will that sell? No idea... ASCII porn... Nostalgia... Prehistoric internet... Not sure... What am I saying... No one will pay for something like this... It may go for freaks but... Never mind... How about converting images to matrix?... Hm... What... What the heck... is going on with the other machine?... The feed from the antenna... Wow... I didn't take this image... Hm... Who's that guy?... Fuck... this cable... darn..."

Thus ends my neighbor's log file. I bet that he's currently taking a long nap, for most of the day.

"Doris, was that all?"

"Yes, Rebecca. This is the video record, to the end."

"Don't you think?..."

"I do... Computer! find . -name *.raw..."

The screen on the kitchen wall suddenly fills with little icons, photos, snap shots, strange graphics or just white rectangles... About an hour later, amongst beautiful and awful things, trivial and sublime, black and white solids, we finally find the exact representation of Rolf's image that has popped up in my mind during orgasm, this morning. Amazing!

"Has Don induced this in your mind, by night?" Asks Doris, like feeling a bit guilty for no reason.

"Dunno."

"Has his psycho mind mapping antenna caught it from some place?"

"Dunno. Had I induced it from my dreams into his antenna and log files?"

"Dunno..."

"What a dream, Doris dear..."

"A dream with a log file on it, Rebecca dear."

---