So there you have it. All I do is look. Think of the cat and the king and you'll know what I mean. The way I see it, where's the harm in looking?

So I view and that's it. Many of them catch me at it of course and there's a whole variety of reactions when they do. Some roll their eyes in a blasé kind of a way, some are shocked, some pretend shock, some are tickled pink and some screw up their faces in distaste. But they all leave me feeling ashamed, as if I've already violated them. It's awful, but I can't help looking. Because dreams are what I live on. Only dreams. But who can tell what's ahead? Can anybody tell what's ahead of them? I mean, have you heard of William Blake? Prize painter, poet extraordinaire and total weirdo, he's now considered by other total weirdoes to be one of the most influential figures of all time. This is the dude that wrote:

Tiger, tiger, burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

Why is he weird? I hear you ask. He's weird because he tells us to act out our longings. Just look at this gem from him.

"The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom."

Tiger tiger burning bright indeedie.

So maybe I shouldn't feel too bad about my shameful fantasies. I mean to say, the girl of the great Dante's dreams was only eight. Ever since I stopped reading School Friend and took up with Dante the man has fascinated me. This God-like figure, the father of the Italian language according to some know-all on Wikipedia, would never have written his Inferno if he hadn't gone through his private one first – the titillating image of eight-year-old Beatrice whom he first met at a children's party when he was nine. And from then until the day he died he was haunted by that memory of her, a memory that never left him. He saw just her once more about ten years later, this time in the street, but he didn't have the balls to speak to her. He did dream about her however, day and night, night and day. Poor Beatrice died young and even in death she was his obsessive object of desire. But he never admitted to wanting sex with her – too crude you see. So he sublimated his shocking need by writing The Divine Comedy and having Beatrice guide him through the nine celestial spheres of heaven. Confusing, what? But then Dante was one confused dude. Certifiable of course.