Naked

"I'm naked."

hmm..

"I'm naked."

what?

"I am naked."

And she obviously isn't.

She's wearing black. All black. Except her belt buckle. That's silver.

 "James I'm naked."

 And she's looking down at me. and I up at her from aside, kneeling for some strange reason. Who knows where my subconscious was before it began lying to me.

"No, you don't understand I'm naked."

And she's obviously wearing a polyester v-neck. cut low to show the ripe breasts of her age. That trick of her trade. Her lips are done up. Red but not scarlet. Not magenta. but not pink. Red with the crimson of glosped on gloss. The rosy cheeks that you should really only see in seventy's reenactments of the rocking 20's that weren't ever as real as when they were done up in a film and a script.

And this is all scripted I'm sure. He's trying to tell me something. Myself. Arguing through this dolled up dress of a woman shouting at me through waving arms that she truly is naked and I wake up.