This village is huge, I am stood on top of a wicker basket overlooking this village. Everybody here seems to be a child. They all have beards. Why? I don’t know. I ask a passer by why everybody has a beard and where the adults are. I got hit over the head with a mace.
I woke up feeling a little disorientated in a house, The clothes I had on didn’t fit. The house was filled with small bearded children, even the girls had beards. There was a banging on the door, it lasted a rather long time. Everybody in the house shouted at me to answer the door. I opened this wooden door and all that was there was a mirror. A mirror that blocked the door passage. I looked at myself and saw myself with a beard, and I had turned into a child.
Why is there carvings of Stymphalian birds around this room of concrete walls?
Where is the smoke coming from? I will not morph!
Why have the walls grew?
I am in the middle of the Chremonidean War. There is a group of men wearing black jewelry east of me and a group of men wearing white jewelry west of me. They are all running sideways towards me at once, with what looks like axes in their hands. I don’t think they’ve mastered running north or south because when I ran north, they all collided with eachother.
I stuck postage stamps over my eyes and cried out for Pamola to cool me down. I was wrapped in thousands of linen blankets. My body started to change form and I preyed on the blankets. I grabbed them with my suckered tentacles which were then passed to shorter arms, which held the blankets. I then started to tear the blankets apart.
We ran through the Derasar in our freshly washed clothes. As we ran, I read your mind. You were playing the harp in your head. Creating near-perfect sine waves both mellow and vibrant. My mind was so concentrated on your mind I lost control of my feet and fell onto my side. My hand was cut and blood dripped onto the stone floor. Some men carried me out of the Derasar. As I was carried out, I saw next to the doorway a symbol. The symbol looked like a hand with a wheel on the palm.
I am in a hotel, a hotel I quite frequently visit. (a hotel I have never seen outside of my dreams.) I see an extremely pretty girl at the reception desk. I start walking over to her but the reception desk keeps moving away from me. Every step I take, the reception desk gets further away from me. I carry on walking over, but I fall. I fell into a small pool surrounded by a fountain placed exactly in the middle, on marble flooring. I quickly jump out hoping she hadn’t seen me. I’m getting closer to this girl and I’m now completely dry. She walks up a spiral staircase where I follow her. I must of been drinking before, because the walls are spinning and I’m losing my feet. My hands are patting the walls as I’m walking up the staircase. I get onto level 3 and I loose the girl, I don’t know where she went, she walked onto this floor. As I walk down the corridor I knock on every door hoping to see her face as she opens the door. I get to the end of the corridor and I am suddenly on a diving board. My foot bounces from the diving board and my body goes over. I’m falling. I’m falling from this very high diving board into this huge pool below me. I carry on falling.
A disconsolate winter landscape, a bird with no wings, a tree with no leaves. This is where I live? Is this how I feel inside? Low levels of enthusiasm and eagerness for activity. Can’t take much anymore. But I think to myself, more than one soul dies in a suicide. I don’t want to be remembered as a murderer.
I hear flutes in the distance, over these icebergs. The icebergs are quickly melting. There is no sun though. It is really dark. I think I’m reading something by Descartes.
I’m sat on a wicker chair on an old porch over looking a lake surrounded by trees. I think the date was 1930. I was reading a book called ‘The Sanity and Grace: A Journey of Suicide, Survival, and Strength’ I was crying, and the tears that dived into the pages of the book made the ink run. I gave up on reading the book and jumped into the lake with my arms by my side and legs straight. I couldn’t reach the surface of the water after my jump into the lake.
I’m sat in a carriage pulled by a black muntjac. In one hand I have a cigar and in the other, I have a book by Kahlil Gibran called ‘The Prophet’. I can hear John Maus in the distance calling up to the stars with his haunting baritone voice. It is around 4pm. John is wanting the stars to turn black so they can be seen in the daylight.
