Trouble with Inklings:

Last night I had several dreams within dreams.

In the first one, I was at The House....The House can show up anywhere and is a mixture of my aunt's house, my home in MD, and the first home we lived in when my parents moved me to this state. All three homes were haunted IRL and twist together to act as the backdrop for whatever story my Dreaming wishes to weave.

It's like, my own personal Rose Red.

My Incubus was there, but he was keeping his distance. He's been acting squirrely since I began feeding on the dreams of others, and I'm not sure why. Maybe either out of some professional courtesy or because he's unsure of me now, so instead of lavishing me with some awesome dream-fornication, he just skulks around in the shadows, acting out the part of my own, personal Cheshire Cat....who, on occasion, gives me mind-blowing orgasms while in the form of Paul Giamatti. Yes, even at his sweetest, my Incubus is a extremely sick bastard with a endlessly twisted sense of humor.

In the dream, I suddenly began bleeding from my eyes, mouth and lower orifices. My family took me to the hospital and that's when I realized that my Father was there, so I knew it was a dream and woke up. Except I woke up in the hospital with even more bleeding and a doctor telling me that I was dying and had a 1% chance at recovery. Since I already knew I was dreaming I just projected myself out of it.

Suddenly I'm in a tour bus, except it's more like an RV the size of a train with several connecting compartments. I was there on a tacky sofa with the Incubus sitting beside me and across from us was Sylvester Stallone, who was surrounded by a group of his guy friends and a gaggle of nymphets.

We were watching a porno on a small TV at the front of the "room". It was one of those nasty, low-budget flicks that makes you want to take a shower afterwards just because of how skeezy everything looks. Turns out that Sylvester Stallone was in it, and he starts explaining to me that since he started out in porn, and is now planning to retire, that he figured he would go out with the same bang.

He was saying something else when I realized that the tacky porno with it's copious amounts of bodily fluids being flung all about to such an extent that it would have put an army of Super Soakers to shame, had been shot in the very room I was now located in, with most of the extra oozey secretions being deposited on the couch I was sitting on. Revolted I jumped up and ran out of the cabin, only to enter another cabin which had been set up as a tattoo pallor. The old man doing the ink offered me one for free, if I would listen to his story, which I was forced to turn down after seeing how filthy his work station was.

There was more to the dream after that, but I don't really recall at the moment. I'm pretty sure that it was just more inane symbolism, and pesky spectral annoyances.

The only real interest for me throughout this whole thing was having the Incubus constantly following me. The last time I saw him in my Dreaming, he physically attacked me, which is something that has never happened before.

If he attempts to attack me again, then I'm putting him down. Nobody likes a feral Incubus.