Dream Time

In the shrunken hours of night the phone rang off its hook and with sopping lips I answered, “Yes?” I wiped the juices that ran down my jowls with the back of my hand and cradled the receiver against my shoulder, murmuring the squirming form next to me with my other hand. Like thin syrup the voice at the end of line sluiced, “Is it a bad time?”

The ninth played in the background and there was a sucking sound sloo sloo sloo. Splooo. My hand masticating still I said, “Worshipping at the base of mount Mons as the hours grow larger.”

“Ahh,” the voice sloshed. “I’m experiencing Fellini myself.” I nodded, understanding. “Tasting the papaya,” the voice continued. “Worthwhile endeavour. Soft distraction. Onto bigger things now. The dream’s hallucination has spoken.”

I tensed. The bedsheets wrothe and my lungs courted prana. Smoothness returned its limn onto the world once again. The bed flowed with luxuriant ripples. With shakingly steady breath I said, “It’s time?”




A jangle discordant leaked through the receiver, chased by a sibilant yessss… click. The bed shook and a rough soft form fell onto me, pasting my face wetly with saliva. A bark.

“Yes, boss,” I chuckled, picked up the papaya I had been attacking with relish before the rude interruption, and led the way to the back door. Like flame, thoughts of dreams flickered scattered through axons and dendrites as Dog darkled into the night.

Maya, insubstantial as it is, is no easy task, I reflected somberly. I chewed at my fruit and watched Dog caper through the moon silvered hillyards, knowing it would be last I knew such simple pleasures.

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