dreams could be fickle things, too abstruse for the subconscious human mind to accurately perceive. joseph kavinsky, too, was a fickle thing.

one moment he would be making out with a girl in one of his countless white mitsubishis, then he’d be throwing her out with a bitch and setting the car on fire with a molotov cocktail.

if living with an absentee bulgarian mobster for a father and a plasticky factory-made blonde mother had taught joseph anything, it was spontaneity. that and a massive fucking ego.

you were one of his latest drugs, lingering at the edge of his lurid substance parties and watching the damage with those pretty eyes of yours. kavinsky had dreamed silver rings embedded with pearlescent stones the color of your irises. maybe he planned to give them to you, but maybe he was also a coward.

the previous night had consisted of kavinsky teaching you to control your dreams in a field full of a hundred white mitsubishis; and a preposterous amount of drugs. the next day (was it daytime, or a dream?) you awoke (were you really awake?) in a movie theatre seat.

scio quid estis vos. “you didn’t throw up,” kavinsky noted from two seats away, looking as unbreakable and wild as ever with those hollow umber eyes. “most people throw up after drinking that much.”

he allowed you to take in the basement home theater of his mansion: real movie seats, popcorn machine, ceiling projector, shelf full of action flicks and lecherous films with uninventive titles. then he snorted a line offhandedly, wanting you to break the silence first. you did not.

everything was lurid and edible, like your dreams.

“say something, {{user}} baby.”

the nickname was an insult, of course it was. that was the absurd dexterity of kavinsky's vocabulary, to singlehandedly insult and praise someone as he wished.