(no subject)
You're dreaming.
In your dream live your thoughts, and in this dream your thoughts are disturbing.
A room appears. This room is not for occupying. You are in a corridor. The corridor of a particularly ordinary suburban home. Shoe rack by the door. Keys in a dish on a small piece of furniture. Ducks in flight captured hideously in plaster adorning the walls.
You move on, the transient nature of the room pushing you along.
You pass through into the lounge room. You have identified it as the lounge room because it has all the accoutrements a lounge room often has. Sofa, television, dining table, a cabinet full of all the cutlery and dining ware you'll ever need and never use.
These objects are but background noise to the otherworldliness this room contains.
Arrayed against the back wall is a group of flamingos. They are dressed in tutus, tiaras and combat boots. They have come to replace the Guatemalan national ballet, who was stopped by customs from entering the country due to allegations of cannibalism from several key federal agencies. They are prancing elegantly in the background, to the tune of Edvard Grie's Aases Tod.
The solemnity of the music makes the grace of the dancing birds seem melancholy, almost depressing, as if these surrealist creatures in their mocking uniforms are representative of the world itself crying in despair. They seem to you the very tears of the universe set against the velvet, crazed backdrop of insanity.
Your genitals begin to swell of their own accord.
You have become the inter-dimensional doppelganger of the Marquis de Sade himself, replete with evil twin beard and eye patch. Your new found capacity for cruelty both sickens and delights you, like a blind man coming out of the dark for the first time of his life into an aching vista of pain and suffering, agony and torment.
Through the glass of the window facing the street, you see none other than Sigmund Freud spooning with Carl Gustav Jung in the back of an old convertible, their eyes red with passion and copious amounts of cocaine. Behind them, a fire hydrant spews forth steam into the night sky, a herald of transitional changes that is lost on the amorous psychoanalysts, fumbling as they are in each other's embrace.
A servant enters the room. She is your high school chemistry teacher. She begins extolling to you the basic principles of quantum theory while performing an elaborate striptease. She manages not only to serve you a very complicated beverage but she also traces back your family tree for 12 generations, highlighting which unions proved fruitful and those that ultimately did not.
Three salesmen enter the house and begin to solicit you. They wish to sell you a dirge composed for your own demise. As you struggle to politely decline, they set upon you with small pins and thread. They are intent on pricking you to death and transforming your corpse into some form of stringed instrument on which their lament can be played. The agony that spreads through your body is intoxicating.
You awake.
Your pulse is racing, your skin damp with sweat. You feel like you have experienced a stroke, a heart attack and sexual release all in one.
Disappointment settles in your mind as you realize you will never achieve anything so bizarre in your life.
In your dream live your thoughts, and in this dream your thoughts are disturbing.
A room appears. This room is not for occupying. You are in a corridor. The corridor of a particularly ordinary suburban home. Shoe rack by the door. Keys in a dish on a small piece of furniture. Ducks in flight captured hideously in plaster adorning the walls.
You move on, the transient nature of the room pushing you along.
You pass through into the lounge room. You have identified it as the lounge room because it has all the accoutrements a lounge room often has. Sofa, television, dining table, a cabinet full of all the cutlery and dining ware you'll ever need and never use.
These objects are but background noise to the otherworldliness this room contains.
Arrayed against the back wall is a group of flamingos. They are dressed in tutus, tiaras and combat boots. They have come to replace the Guatemalan national ballet, who was stopped by customs from entering the country due to allegations of cannibalism from several key federal agencies. They are prancing elegantly in the background, to the tune of Edvard Grie's Aases Tod.
The solemnity of the music makes the grace of the dancing birds seem melancholy, almost depressing, as if these surrealist creatures in their mocking uniforms are representative of the world itself crying in despair. They seem to you the very tears of the universe set against the velvet, crazed backdrop of insanity.
Your genitals begin to swell of their own accord.
You have become the inter-dimensional doppelganger of the Marquis de Sade himself, replete with evil twin beard and eye patch. Your new found capacity for cruelty both sickens and delights you, like a blind man coming out of the dark for the first time of his life into an aching vista of pain and suffering, agony and torment.
Through the glass of the window facing the street, you see none other than Sigmund Freud spooning with Carl Gustav Jung in the back of an old convertible, their eyes red with passion and copious amounts of cocaine. Behind them, a fire hydrant spews forth steam into the night sky, a herald of transitional changes that is lost on the amorous psychoanalysts, fumbling as they are in each other's embrace.
A servant enters the room. She is your high school chemistry teacher. She begins extolling to you the basic principles of quantum theory while performing an elaborate striptease. She manages not only to serve you a very complicated beverage but she also traces back your family tree for 12 generations, highlighting which unions proved fruitful and those that ultimately did not.
Three salesmen enter the house and begin to solicit you. They wish to sell you a dirge composed for your own demise. As you struggle to politely decline, they set upon you with small pins and thread. They are intent on pricking you to death and transforming your corpse into some form of stringed instrument on which their lament can be played. The agony that spreads through your body is intoxicating.
You awake.
Your pulse is racing, your skin damp with sweat. You feel like you have experienced a stroke, a heart attack and sexual release all in one.
Disappointment settles in your mind as you realize you will never achieve anything so bizarre in your life.