Other-worldly dreams keep me at peace while I put them through paces: various men, various places. Vicariously kissing in dreams, pressing lips, connecting faces. Familiar amalgamations possess piercing, forgettable eyes. It seems as though appearances are constantly changing, idyllic features turn sour and are replaced by more pleasing countenances, a million copies of his face. Some of these strangers resemble but are not limited to neighborhood boys playing with bright plastic toys. Am I merely an object to collect? I raise no objection for I collect them, too. I keep men in my trophy room.