True story.
I jog alongside the bus that's heading towards my appointment until the coffee and pizza in my gut tell me to stop. Without a cell phone, I walk into the only shop nearby that looks like they might let me use their phone. A squat old Asian woman tells me she won't. We both briefly glimpse the black rotary receiver on her desk, we meet eyes again and she informs me of a pay phone down the street. Restless imps in my head shout rants and slurs at her. I tell them to shut up and walk out.
Caffeine is the only thing that keeps me standing when the sun hits my eyes, an anxious acid in my stomach fuels me towards my destination. A thick colourless fog drowns the crowded street and the countless inaudible imps start to make themselves heard. I drop a quarter, from a pocket full of pennies and dimes, into the machine. As I reach to dial my finger extends farther than it should, scraping plastic and wire along it's way. The receiver cord snaps and falls to my side. The imps laugh.
A plastic thud as I drop the receiver to the pavement below and as if on cue the fog around me vacuums into my mouth and up my nostrils, leaving nothing of the city behind except imprints of people, trees, cars and buildings covered with the dried up crumbs of a white eraser. In real life, a few passersby slow down and stare as I stumble forwards, choking for air. Fewer stop entirely as I collapse face first into the street. A moment passes and the small crowd, nonplussed, carry on with their day. The imps laugh again.
I wake up in the middle of my Elementary school playground, surrounded by plump, giant up-right walking birds. From this I can tell I'm dreaming. The birds stand intimidatingly at at least eight feet in height, are covered in messy grey and white fur, and waddle stupidly side to side. They're terrorizing the school children on the soccer field, the steep racing hill, the swing-set on wood chips, and are jumping up and pecking at my bride on the jungle gym - Jodie Foster. I love Jodie Foster, and must get her to safety. From my pocket I pull out a slimy green disc, a substance that strongly resembles whatever it was that Slimer from the Ghostbusters was made of, and toss it at the bird harassing Jodie foster. The feathered thing explodes in a burst of green steam that smells of strong onions. A bowl of soup wakes me up in a strangers bed.
At the kitchen table of my rescuer's home, I sit across from a familiar old Asian woman. To my right is her daughter, younger than myself, wearing a red and white polka dot dress and two long pigtails behind her head; purple lip stick make her lips look like ripe plumbs. To my left, a grizzly old man gives me perturbed glances over his dinner.
The story just gets obvious from here.
Caffeine is the only thing that keeps me standing when the sun hits my eyes, an anxious acid in my stomach fuels me towards my destination. A thick colourless fog drowns the crowded street and the countless inaudible imps start to make themselves heard. I drop a quarter, from a pocket full of pennies and dimes, into the machine. As I reach to dial my finger extends farther than it should, scraping plastic and wire along it's way. The receiver cord snaps and falls to my side. The imps laugh.
A plastic thud as I drop the receiver to the pavement below and as if on cue the fog around me vacuums into my mouth and up my nostrils, leaving nothing of the city behind except imprints of people, trees, cars and buildings covered with the dried up crumbs of a white eraser. In real life, a few passersby slow down and stare as I stumble forwards, choking for air. Fewer stop entirely as I collapse face first into the street. A moment passes and the small crowd, nonplussed, carry on with their day. The imps laugh again.
I wake up in the middle of my Elementary school playground, surrounded by plump, giant up-right walking birds. From this I can tell I'm dreaming. The birds stand intimidatingly at at least eight feet in height, are covered in messy grey and white fur, and waddle stupidly side to side. They're terrorizing the school children on the soccer field, the steep racing hill, the swing-set on wood chips, and are jumping up and pecking at my bride on the jungle gym - Jodie Foster. I love Jodie Foster, and must get her to safety. From my pocket I pull out a slimy green disc, a substance that strongly resembles whatever it was that Slimer from the Ghostbusters was made of, and toss it at the bird harassing Jodie foster. The feathered thing explodes in a burst of green steam that smells of strong onions. A bowl of soup wakes me up in a strangers bed.
At the kitchen table of my rescuer's home, I sit across from a familiar old Asian woman. To my right is her daughter, younger than myself, wearing a red and white polka dot dress and two long pigtails behind her head; purple lip stick make her lips look like ripe plumbs. To my left, a grizzly old man gives me perturbed glances over his dinner.
The story just gets obvious from here.