Dream Pills

When he dreams he imagines her body unhidden in the lace of bedsheets, and her imported perfume transposing over him. When Hojo dreams he imagines ludicrous, dubious events, some which subside in a shameless note but others he speculates throughout his work: he fixes them, altering the unwanted details, constructing a dream spawned off his own creation. Since infancy he had been taught to control situations to the best of his handles: he could rebuild even dreams, the most permanent issues next to the death he had conquered.

"...Professor Hojo?"

Today he is thinking of her, of all her beauty, of her folded mahogany hair and of her waltzing into the lab-room on light heels. And he only thinks of her, even as there are paperpushers pleading he sign documents and foreign businessmen intrigued by the creature he beheld Jenova. His copious loads of work could not be finished within a lifetime, yet thoughts of her bequeath him further into delusion: his infatuation is disgusting.

-- In his dreams she is smiling with a child's innocence, the radio tunes of morning jazz, and a set of defined hands embrace her and she vanishes from the angles of his mind. Those hands which couldn't belong to him: the hands of a scientist did not hold a flower without decaying its petals --

"Yes, Sephiroth?"

Piano black and ivory white: he had her until Vincent came, the Turk with guns, promises, a spirit of ridden adventure and with the always safety assurances. He had pushed the door to 52th's bathrooms and found his arms held at her waist and she giggling momentarily into a kiss; and that kiss alone cut with his recondite wounds, deeper than any mental damage Jenova had induced upon him those summers he wasted frustrated, in loneliness with the hysterical acts of Shinra.

Since, Hojo could not structure dreams without his presence stealing her from sight; she was far, into another dimension with he and his gifts of happiness. What had a scientist to offer her? Safe for the madness which developed and readily regulated in his mind as something trivial, he had chosen the wrong occupation as an adolescent.

-- In his dreams the Turk's eyes were closed tight and he smothered kisses over her impregnated stomach. The two lied in a bed constructed of wires and chemicals and metal, an operating table with cream colored pillows and sheets and the cries of an unborn child in torment. He walked about the room, stood not two paces from them and no one noticed, did not stir for his presence was insignificant --

The separation of reality and dreams became abstract as love, dreams which he drugged; he awoke purging and ill from the veracity surrounding him. And in his body he was weak, his fingers tainted and ashamed: he shunned restraint, tattered the flesh which ignited his madness and drowned in projects. Jenova locked behind a thick window, his paperwork: Shinra and the serving thrall of destruction.

-- In his dreams he stripped her of dignity and pushed deep words in her comprehension, coaxing a time for privacy and her shouting for restraint. And no one salvaged her for the sake of science; she was his unconditionally, and now he thought of her outside his dreams which he could not relate to longer --

The monster who could not dwell a world without unrealistic escapes, even when she intoxicated every of his states.

"...Nevermind."