dream
The discomforted brain makes weird constructs, strange things that appear as organic ghosts to the mind's eye.
The imagery reminds me of sconces. That is the thing which it calls to mind, but it's not. Worms, firm, J or L shaped, rotating. Thin, pink bodies. If it's writhing, it's rhythmic, and seems like nothing more than a slow rotation of the base.
Thin tip, narrowing out to infinity in a finite span, that little crook in the neck.
At the top, no worm head or worm eye or worm mouth. Just a small, ornate bouquet of flowers, red and pink and orange, autumn colors. They turn too. The faux-torchlight for the sconces.
A row of these, then, maybe five, six. No counting. And another one, placing up on the wall, secured with a little metal manacle or holder, writhing/rotating.
There's a weird melody playing. Down the hall, four women in Broadway show attire, top hats and leotards, kick into plastic recesses in a plastic window, reminding me of nothing quite so much as those little viewing windows in a McDonald's play-set. Memories of play-sets. The kicking thrums like a bass drum, adding percussion to the melody, which leaves me creeped out and empty.
I wake up, angry but distant.
The imagery reminds me of sconces. That is the thing which it calls to mind, but it's not. Worms, firm, J or L shaped, rotating. Thin, pink bodies. If it's writhing, it's rhythmic, and seems like nothing more than a slow rotation of the base.
Thin tip, narrowing out to infinity in a finite span, that little crook in the neck.
At the top, no worm head or worm eye or worm mouth. Just a small, ornate bouquet of flowers, red and pink and orange, autumn colors. They turn too. The faux-torchlight for the sconces.
A row of these, then, maybe five, six. No counting. And another one, placing up on the wall, secured with a little metal manacle or holder, writhing/rotating.
There's a weird melody playing. Down the hall, four women in Broadway show attire, top hats and leotards, kick into plastic recesses in a plastic window, reminding me of nothing quite so much as those little viewing windows in a McDonald's play-set. Memories of play-sets. The kicking thrums like a bass drum, adding percussion to the melody, which leaves me creeped out and empty.
I wake up, angry but distant.