She dreamt.

I was taking another woman from behind. This other woman had her shirt on. But her skirt was lifted up above the waist. Her panty lay on the floor. She dreamt she saw me taking another woman from behind.

It was in the semi-darkness of a corner of the room. This other woman had her elbows resting on a desk. Her back was arched to meet her smooth ass to my grinding hips. Her long legs were splayed open like an inverted V. Her feet wore high-heels. And I was praying in her shrine.

This other woman panted as if she was dying. She dreamt she knew I did not care about her life. As if she was me. I just penetrated deeper and deeper into her shrine. I held onto her thin waist, and rode on to the far infinity, repeating everything over and over again.

She dreamt she saw me though I was faceless. But she knew it was me. And she saw me from the mirror of her dreaming. In the mirror, she saw the other woman dying. The nearer death approaches, the more aroused she was. She was leaning on her own desk, spying us from the mirror, and her fingers walked and wandered south. She was strumming - the instrument of her lonely love - and she was crying and masturbating in the emptiness of the semi-dark room.

She said she saw me in her dream. But I was far from it. I was reading Soseki Natsume's Ten Nights of Dream by the side of a grave. I was waiting for the dead woman to come back to me.

From the moist of the soil, a tiny sapling had peeked her head through. She swayed her heavy head in the cold wind, looking. And she turned east and found the red sun.

I counted, "Two."