Just of an Afternoon Dream (reader beware this doesn't go anwhere)

fuzzy, like the fade-out of a movie that takes eternities to end
lucid eternities these rem memories
I am the audience viewing delta wave drama unfold
sparking amidst the framework(brainwork) of my mind
like soap opera static directed by Charles Tart himself

In this episode the main characters include
1) the sweet smiling cityboy with his spicy attitude and
2) yours truly, slightly confused, yet witty none the less with nothing left to loose
finally 3) of less importance, two women of random with unfamiliar faces, yet significant to the main characters development

now the stage is set in this dream event
cityboy lounges upon a low lying bed, with the two unnamed women, the room in sudo-mood shimmering with dim candle lighting
he's expressive in mid conversation or relaying some part of his storybook past to them
and cue stage right yours truly arrives not uninvited, but still feels shes intruded upon some seductive maneuvers

the leading lady smiling wide and laughing, adding humor to the scene, cracking jokes and throwing witty stones in the cityboys direction in comical routine
somewhat uncomfortable in lue of their past and with more current events, between the time they have spent and the fluids they've swapped, feeling somewhat misplaced and lost in the faceless women's presence

she shines bright in her nervousness,
her light fevers contagious and infects the supporting characters so much that the other women in tune join in tossing stones at their darling male friend,
the poor little victim of his own throngal creation

Well by now, I 'm sure the reader is wondering where this story is going
unfortunately it's really just and over embellished(for your entertainment) personal record of sleep patterns and clairvoyant remnants laced with emotional components through neural connections
my dream waves of existence

And upon my rebirth into this waking earth
a moral of sorts passed down my roads, the dream as insignificant as it was
left me stuck on one thought like honey to it's own pot,
that of all the things upon which I could dream and remember even
the sweet boy of the city remains within the folds of my prefrontal lobe activity

In a short show summery of less flowery content:

Child, I dream of you often.