He could have dreamed of falling from the sky, falling down out of control until chased by snakes and drowning mothers with whips in elevators and shadows doing dirty things with walls…
He could have dreamed of Wink, little Joy and Peter meeting to talk about sadomasochism or Alice late for work with Simon and the Old Duck, the giant orgasm and did he fear to touch them, soft and warm, feel their breasts press up against his chest?
He could have stood naked before us, his teeth falling out one by one and his hand wet, peeing in the wood while rocks begin to move and roll toward him, backing up into the mouth of feotid breath and ugly fat grandmothers…
He could have done better.
He could have thought over his fear of sin, recognized that forgotten kiss on the side of his rotten face.
He could have even confessed the Big One with his mother and Johnson and what he thought about his own ugly future and his own ugly fears about Molly and his self-denial and self-doubt and why he hated that sex odor after the camp meeting in a world with disease and massage oil and pricks and shit like that.
But he only dreamed of cows, and even he knew what that meant.