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I dreamt of viscosity.

I was at a bowling alley that was also a restaurant. It was also partly a sushi bar. The place was a mixture between the bowling alley where my biker grandpa often takes me to eat and the place I ate dinner last night—Yamashiro, a Japanese restaurant that sits on a cliff overlooking all of Los Angeles. I was there with someone else. I think I was there with my grandfather, although he played no role in the dream.

At one point I excused myself to the restroom.

The colors in the room were saturated and deep. The lighting was acute and directed in places, cutting artsy, modern shadows exactly where the interior decorator wanted them. Stalls stood to my left, sinks to my right. I was alone. The room was blanketed with silence.

My bladder was full and heavy and bursting at the seams. So, I walked past the sinks and stalls to a urinal which was rounder and cleaner than usual.

Urinating must have happened, although it played no role in the dream. There were no sounds of liquid falling against porcelain or the familiar trickling. Only silence.

The configuration of the room changed, but only into another very similar restroom with slightly different item placement and lighting. The urinal in front of me was replaced with a sink and mirror and a wall–mounted soap dispenser—the rectangular ones you cup your hand underneath and pull on to get the soap to squirt out. The lighting went from dramatic and moody to to soft and without character.

It seemed like a waste of a change of scenery, considering the drastic change potential of the mind's dream engine.

Suddenly I was so horny. I had to masturbate immediately. It was the sight of the soap that got me in the mood. The first time I masturbated I was ten years old and I used liquid hand soap as a lubricant. (I was young and sheltered. At that age, who would've told me that soap would get in my urethra and sting like a litter of bitter scorpions taking out their aggressions on the inside of my amateur penis?)

There was a stall to my left and I knew what I had to do. I squeezed one pump of the soap into my hand, mixed it with a few drops of water from the sink, then ducked swiftly into the stall. I figured the room had been empty for a bit too long. Someone was bound to come in at any moment. Something told me that the viscosity of the soap–water mix wouldn't be quite right, and I reached my arm out and got another two pumps of soap before locking the metal door behind me.

The warm soap felt so familiar against my erect penis. It wasn't thick enough, though. There was too much water. I observed that my perception oscillated between first and third person. Some moments I was the man in the stall; during others I stood away from myself and noticed that that the me in the stall spent a lot of time thinking about viscosity, and that seemed like a silly thing to try to perfect right now. The me that observed thought the me in the stall was being very quaint and quite like the Justin he expected.

It didn't take long to reach orgasm in the stall. The orgasm itself was small and felt like very little. I didn't expect much more—it was a rush job, anyways. I don't remember where I put the semen. If there was semen at all, it played no role in the dream.

The only things that seemed to matter were viscosity and haste. And, haste is really nothing more than a viscosity of the mind. Haste is the specific resistance of one's thoughts—and therefore one's entire worldview—to the natural flow of time. You don't want to be too hasty; you don't want to be too lax, either. It can take a while to get it right—maybe a lifetime. Just like the lubricants we spread against those parts of our bodies that beg to be rubbed the right way, the resistance has to be just right.

If anything else happened in the dream, it didn't matter. I opened my eyes and all that remained were faint memories of a restroom, a sense of urgency reserved for only the most hasty of people, and the dramatic shadows cut by interior designers who lit up my mind with one bright word: viscosity.