In the night I began struggling again. I had been luxuriating for days in that sense of floating in a perfect stream that carries me nowhere in particular and everywhere I would want a dream to go – you also know that feeling well, I am sure.
Then Wham, like a spacecraft hitting an asteroid belt without pre-warning – (that feeling when your flying saucer hurtles itself through 7 conflicting spatial-temporal dimensions at once, spinning like a top) – like a whore being banged by a miner just come in from a 3 month stint in the desert – like a dictator suddenly caught alone naked in the forest by 1000 of the tribesmen – and Women! – who his henchmen have raped and pillaged for years – like a particularly unsatisfactory bowl of soggy chips – the dream tipped upside down again.
I hate it when the dream does that.
And I perhaps am heard calling out in the night, “Whose frigging dream is This, Anyway!”.