Sick

Date: 5/2/2019

I was sick the night before. And once again I dreamt of him. He doesn't have a name even until now, but it was him, my sugar daddy. Maybe he is just the image of my ideal type of men. It was always just him. He was sitting on my bed. His hands are calloused and rough, but I remembered his skin feels nice and cool against my burning forehead. He carried his swords with him. I have no idea why, but he was a samurai, always have been. Dreams don't always make senses, I think. His British accent was, again, very thick, as he complained about how I should take Paracetamol instead of my country's native flu medicine. I did not use Paracetamol nor did the mentioned medicine for the whole day, but another type. He said he doesn't know how to cook, so he ended up making me instant porridge. I can't tatse it, but I know I told him it tasted flat. He even made some tea. Next thing happens, I was lying on the bed while he sat on the ground, reading Pet Sematary to me. It sounded more like he was describing the online trailer for me. And then I woke up, my fever has gone down just a little bit. I wondered if I should buy the book.