Night of 21st April 2010

We're on the plane, seated on the left side of the cabin. The hippy girl, the alpha girl of the group, is a few rows in front; she's beautiful: blonde, young, androgynous. I'm doing my best to convince her that I'm here because I'm interested in the same things, have the same outlook on life as her. I want, as do many other boys, her to take a shine to me. However, she has seen through other overtures as purely sexual in nature, and has shunned them (though she enjoys being sought after).
I'm drunk with drowsiness and let my game slip—I murmur to my friend, sitting left of me, that I'm only here to fuck her. It's supposed to be a little in-joke, only for me and him, and only to be heard by me and him. But she hears it. She stops her conversation - stood up talking to her seated, unseen, friend - and looks my way, disgusted.
Until this point I hadn't revealed a single chink in my armour. I sense that she knew all along that I wasn't genuine, that I wasn't one of her kind; not interested in the things she's interested in, and only on this plane trip (to some bohemian destination in her taste) as a means to an end. And, for my part, I knew that her disgust at other propositions was mostly feigned - as was the degree of her disgust now - and she reveled in being lusted after. We both knew we were playing games.

I spend the rest of the journey, trying to repair the damage done by my comment.

We've arrived. We're in some ethnic locale - like Morocco, or Egypt - and my friend and me are walking about. The girl had broken off from us, but this seeming to be some kind of school-trip, we expected we'd come across her again. We do. We're outside a 2 or 3 floored, square building, a house, that's to be our place of stay—and it's owned by the girl's mother. She of course will be here. We see her outside, with her friend again.

We're staying at the hotel and we're in the dining area. Not sure what to do, I'm trying to observe what everyone else is doing and what's on offer. There is the most astounding amount of cakes, sponges, puddings, and mouses—all chocolate. I love chocolate deserts and am overwhelmed at what a find this hotel is.

(next, there's a kind of rapping episode. Set in the backstreets of a city. There's a white rapper trying to prove himself, and some how his life is in danger. There is an attempt made on it. It was quite an intricate narrative with other characters, but is lost on me in waking)

Nana is in distress and I need to paint her finger nails—but there are no nail polishes anywhere. I remember the black felt-tip style "signing pens" I often write in my notebook with, and use one to begin inking up her nails. But it's not just her nails, and I must paint her skin black too. I'm stroking the black ink on her as best I can; seamlessly, it's no longer ink from my pen that I'm applying, it's soy-sauce.
It's harder to get a jet black with the watery soy-sauce; it weeps away and leaves a light brown colour. I must apply more. Though I begin to dye Nana's skin black, and we're close to getting the job done—I wonder, perhaps consciously, why she needs to be black all over, and realize that getting a black colour all over is not the only result I'll get with soy-sauce: she'll smell of the sauce, and what's more it'll be horrible and sticky all over. I wake.