Sixteen television screens in four by four rows in front of me, each with the same rainbow-coloured face, waving, never still. Maybe I was not still. Music was playing but it was translated as an incomprehensible amorphous sound in my head; but I liked it. My senses were altered and it was not real, which made me comfortable. Toby comes over to me. I see him through my sixteen television screens. I can hear him but it is just noise, as if my ears are filled with insulation. Maybe they were because I was very warm and probably wet with sweat - but I liked it. He shows me some perforated paper, pours something onto it, tears off a tab and puts it in my mouth. I think he had done that before. He was a generous friend. Every rainbow-coloured person was my friend then. Every object was my friend. Even I was my friend.
I went up to this beautiful purple-haired girl, She was swaying and one of her eyes was bigger than the other - in my television screens - but that made her more attractive. I asked her if she knew what would happen after she dies. She said she would float up out of her rainbow shell and never come back. I said I would see her every time it rains. She said she was not dying yet. I said we never know. She danced. I danced. I found some more television screens. I broke the ice - that's what they call it. I broke the ice because I was in a dream that weekend with no consequences until I woke up or ever. Everybody in my dream was dreaming too.
This weekend I saw a beautiful girl. I pinballed towards her, using the walls to stop myself from approaching. I was nervous. I was wet with sweat but it did not feel nice, or smell nice I assume. I asked her what she does and where she lives and how old she was and if she was having a good time. She said lawyer, King's Cross, 34, yes. I hit the ice, it did not break. I did not hit it again. This weekend was real, I did not dream and the ice stood firm. It was cold around me. The sweat froze on my grey skin and made me motionless. I looked around at the grey people around me. They told me about there grey jobs and their bare houses and their problems. This was real. Reality is boring but we cannot dream forever, only every other weekend.
Copyright © 2008 Rob Richardson. All Rights Reserved.