Daniel C. Boyer

Of course, I have an erection, though this is only possible if I am wearing a (black) hat. I imagine the front of the lift, instead of being a door (there may be a door, but in any case it is concealed by it), is a heavy maroon drapery; I imagine the floor of the lift as a kind of carpeting with a pile that is not too deep, and the pattern is a diamond (like in a pack of cards) pattern with very delicately-formed circles within each diamond. I imagine that there is a quite small rhinoceros immediately to the left of my left calf; for some reason I think that I am would have to be wearing white high-topped sneakers were this scenario to occur.

There is a small pearlescent drop of semen glistening at the top of my penis. We have descended past the seventh floor (it is a very tall hotel), and one can here, as one often can in lifts, the sounds of people frolicking in that floor's swimming pool, and the kind of dappled, shifting light the chlorinated pool tends to cast on the tiles on the walls and ceilings in natatoria somehow falls into the lift. I think of girls I used to want to kiss underwater.

The woman to my right, whose hair smells of woodsmoke, makes some casual comment.

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