High Romantic Cabin Fever

I was reading John Keats, and trying not to fall into a deeper dream which would entail only sleep.

Outside, there were 4-foot drifts of snow with a wind chill that made it impossible to just pick up and go.


On ESPN 2 the bisexual pool shooting women were running the colorful balls across table after table. Their beautiful bi-sexual asses were draped all over the creamy felt that must have smelled so powdery and clean, and halfway between teal and ultramarine. I could hear the little pool balls, as they dropped —

click… click… clic…

Outside, dressed in rags, John Keats was freezing to death, hip-deep in the snow drifts. I fired up my 400 Horsepower Husqvarna Valley-Cat, it made a low throaty moan as I swooped to pick up the stricken Keats. He was as light as a bundle of dahlias, his face the color of fresh snow. John Keats' tubercular lungs rasped, and rasped.

When we got back to the toasty-warm pool room, the bisexual shooters quickly stripped Keats down, tugging his sopping pantaloons down around his ankles. (…)

I could hear Keats coughing.

He was coming back to life!

Meanwhile the nastiest pool player was whispering something, over and
over, in my ear:

"It's all ye need to know," this pretty shooter said.

The dream is saying my time was up, but I never want to let it go.