Charlie.

I guess I had my last dream about Tom Waits last week. It was the last of a series of four. Charlie is now in my head, in my dreams. Drunk and on his deathbed. Desiring my subserviant company. As he stood before me, I grew afriad of him. I feared I would fall victim to his misogyny, or that he would to my misandry. But it didn't happen that way. Instead we were tender toward each other. I cuddled him and fluffed the pillows of his deathbed. I found his body cold and lifeless the following morning, but I didn't cry. I embraced his corpse, and called the coroner. I embraced his corpse....hmmm. Metaphor, irony, or nonsense?