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I have just awoken in the middle of the night. I have received a visitation. From him. From Trent.

I was hanging out at Veronica's house earlier tonight; she had a bottle of absinthe she'd stolen from her brother after he took a trip to Spain. We got good and blotto on it -- I was trying to do that fancy sugar cube trick Trent does in the video for "The Perfect Drug", to no avail -- but instead of seeing visions, we just got drunk. Veronica started kisssing on my neck and trying to put her hands in my shirt, but the velvet was rubbing me the wrong way and it just pissed me off, so I went home and passed out.

The next thing I knew I guess I must have been dreaming. I was on my knees, my hands and neck bound in a wooden stockade. There was only blackness around me. I sensed evil around me everywhere, yet I was not afraid. I could feel my NIN logo tat on my back searing into my flesh like molten fire.

Then, he appeared from the inky blackness. In a loose green gown, long hair tousled about his shoulders. Trent Reznor. The Trent of old; circa that one really wierd Spin magazine cover he was on where he was making that wierd face by pulling the skin around his eyes up. Only he wasn't pulling it up around his eyes this time. His face was passive; kind. He approached me.

From the folds of his robe he removed a shiny silver object; at my reduced height I could see it for what it was: a microphone, not unlike the Shure Beta 58A he gave to me whilst in the pit at the San Diego concert two short weeks ago. He held the microphone out at waist level, it's shiny silver knobbed head even with my face.

"Give me all that you have", he said. "Make it hurt. Make it hurt real good, now."

"I love the pain."

Suddenly the stockade burst open, and I was free! But I didn't run; instead, I clasped both hands around Trent's, and brought the microphone to my lips. "Perfect little dream, the kind that hurts the most," I uttered.

"Forgot how it feels?" Trent asked me?

"Well, almost." I replied.

"Never forget, Gabriel. Never again." He moved backwards, leaving the microphone in my grasp, it's head still at my lips. "Never forget... never again..."

Soon the Trent apparition disappeared into the darkness. With both hands clasped tightly around the shaft of the microphone, I rose to my feet. "I tried, and I gave up," I uttered.

He has visited me. My path is clear. I must begin work on L'orangerie Stank's cover of "Gave Up."

I must create.


Posted by Gabriel in dreaming_of_you | Permalink


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Gabriel, I'm an art student, not a psychologist, but I want you to think REAL HARD about clasping the shafts of things whose head is on your lips.

Also, if this is just some kind of ploy to get me to think Trent meant for you to have his microphone, it's not fucking working. It doesn't matter how many totally gay dreams you have.

This dream tells us two things: You love cock, and you feel guilty.

Posted by: Dierdre | Jun 11, 2005 8:02:57 AM

if you read the whole post, Dierdre, it started off with me making out with a girl. (well, sorta).

Anyway, I don't feel guilty; I feel inspired. And I don't even think about cock.

Why don't you leave my posts alone and go talk about saving hairs in your mouth again. You're making everybody mad.

Posted by: Gabriel | Jun 11, 2005 9:20:21 AM

No, it starts with you refusing to make out with a girl.

Posted by: Dierdre | Jun 11, 2005 10:52:44 AM

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