Very few things in the tapestries of our dreams are as idiotically blissful as the sex–that great bottomless humping of radiant sluts conjured by our sleeping brains. If every dream was a dream of fucking, I would never leave my bed. I’d starve to death. And yet there are pleasures deeper still. Dreams of heaven. In this one I am sitting on a bus. I am traveling somewhere exciting, and I have an enormous roll of hundred-dollar bills in my hand, and I am counting the bills. I am counting them slowly and theatrically. I have no desire to know the exact amount of money I hold; I am counting because peeling bills away from the bankroll feels really, really good. I have never felt as powerful as I do holding this money. The movement of the notes from my left hand to my right is the movement of the universe. No tomorrow comes unless someone buys it, and I can afford every tomorrow and every yesterday, too. The money is in my hands, and the money is endless. No matter how many notes I peel from the roll, it remains the same size. It can never run out. It is a bankroll touched by Christ, and like the basket of loaves and fish it provides until the multitudes are satisfied–and the multitudes are never satisfied. Perhaps the notes feature Christ’s portrait instead of Franklin’s. I do not look closely. I am simply counting the money. A hundred thousand; two hundred thousand; a million. I know there is no end figure but the counting continues, senselessly, and the bus drives on. A hundred million; a billion; a trillion dollars. . .
