Things To Do In Wonderland When You're Dead
In the Spirit of the Rabbit Hole Day
My sleep was heavy, opium-drugged, filled with smoke and fog and half-remembered yearnings.
The Caterpillar has good shit I told the Cheshire Sheep who grinned at me as she faded in and out of rays of purple light, and crossed her feet daintily at the ankles.
The room swirls with plesant colours, the bed stretches like a cat and snuggles against me, and I have to have a sharp word with a particularly mischevious pillowcase. On the ceiling, my shoes float among fluorescent stars.
My hair bursts, quite spontaneously, into flowers. The Sheep smiles again and the clean smooth lines of her teeth gleam as mysteriously as cats.
The dream still tugs at me. An imagined but longed for world. Echoes of a surreal place. The one with love and laughter and handbags in, in which people move about by shutting themselves into tin cans of varying sizes, and where the sky seemed endless and wept sometimes, and shattered into arcs of multi-coloured light.
I am restless and impractical with the longing for the ephemeral, the Caterpillar Dreams.
Worros says the household ghost, by way of greeting. A row of teaspoons take flight and coalesce like a halo above his head.
Do you fancy a cup of tea, Edward? I inquired of the phantom, but he only rattled the doors and shutters and wept about lost sons.
My sleep was heavy, opium-drugged, filled with smoke and fog and half-remembered yearnings.
The Caterpillar has good shit I told the Cheshire Sheep who grinned at me as she faded in and out of rays of purple light, and crossed her feet daintily at the ankles.
The room swirls with plesant colours, the bed stretches like a cat and snuggles against me, and I have to have a sharp word with a particularly mischevious pillowcase. On the ceiling, my shoes float among fluorescent stars.
My hair bursts, quite spontaneously, into flowers. The Sheep smiles again and the clean smooth lines of her teeth gleam as mysteriously as cats.
The dream still tugs at me. An imagined but longed for world. Echoes of a surreal place. The one with love and laughter and handbags in, in which people move about by shutting themselves into tin cans of varying sizes, and where the sky seemed endless and wept sometimes, and shattered into arcs of multi-coloured light.
I am restless and impractical with the longing for the ephemeral, the Caterpillar Dreams.
Worros says the household ghost, by way of greeting. A row of teaspoons take flight and coalesce like a halo above his head.
Do you fancy a cup of tea, Edward? I inquired of the phantom, but he only rattled the doors and shutters and wept about lost sons.