That night Job dreamed of rivers of blood tinkling slowly from all parts of his body as if he was the center sea of a red watered domain. His soul the firmament, his body the matter of which all was wrought, his lifeblood keeping tides with his long and deep slumbering breath. God damn it, Job dreamt, he really wanted a cup of coffee. Childishly he dreamt of picking his nose with the two pinky fingers he no longer had, and of desperately trying to fit his larger digits into his still lobed ears to get at the wax. Then a deeper conscience took over, and the brown wax shot from his ears in powerful round bursts, blowing off his lobes and pounding at the inside of his head with their recoil, flooding all the world in their sick sticky beige glory. And this melted into the caramel girl, who sat at the table with the slut, pondering his eyes as he wrote his story in wax ink on sheets of wax paper, drinking wax creamed and sugared out of a little wax paper cup. After a while, he dared not look up from his brown words, thinking that once upon a time he had caressed the breasts of the slut like the fur of a cat, and that this might not bode so well with the beautiful caramel girl. Who looked like movies. With lips like pillows, and skin like a cup of cream with a little coffee in it. And all Job could feel, all he could really feel and own, was phlegm sliding down his throat, and snot dribbling down his nose. Green power not long subdued to a will no longer waxing. And then they stood, the slut and the caramel girl, and the slut him approached and asked maybe if he could buy them liquor later on, if they couldn’t find anyone else to do so, and Job agreed, enamored of the caramel girl, and thinking that most likely it would come to naught. They departed, and Job looked back down to his words, which were now smeared into complete idiocy, and illegible, and said nothing no more. And at that Job dreamed to think upon what they had once said, that maybe they had spoken of a belted father, or a crippled mother who slept forever and anon. And his eyes drew nearer and nearer the swirling waxy beige and sticky mess on the paper that became a void twirling of caramel gods that sucked Job from his dream body into a secondarily dreamed world of auburn clouds and screaming blurred words like demons trying in vain to read that which had been smeared from existence by the untimely interruption of the slut and the caramel girl.

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