Paul, Paul, Paul....

Paul McCartney and I slung our bodies halfway over the banisters, leaning over the murky Thames. The river was endlessly gray....gray gray gray gray gray gray gray
But no harm ado; Paul is here....
We were cruising, apparently, in this terrible cold afternoon.
And it was Christmas.

"So this is Christmas...." I started, out of the blue.
"And what have you.... done....." Paul followed. "Another year over...."
"....And a new one just begun...."  A huge smile was spread all over my face.
"That's a really nice song, I like it." he said.
"Yeah," I nodded.

And thought:
"The way you say 'year over'....in that special, Paul-ish  way....it's brilliant. Simply, outrageous, BRILLIANT...!"

Paul said nothing much as he looked over the horizons with a muzzly-look on his face. A muzzly-look; as if he were going to sneeze and burst out laughing at the exact same time. There were few people around, as we shared a sense of strangely comforting peace.

"...What's your favourite Beatles' song?" Paul asked me, some while after.
"....my all time.....all time... favourite would be, 'I'm Only Sleeping'...and 'Michelle'...!...and 'For No One'. "
Paul shrugged and nodded somewhat proudly.
"And yes," I continued, "I loved that little session you held once."
"Which one?"
"That....awfully little one. Sorry, it didn't leave much of a mark. It was a bit like Roger....Robert Wyatt."
Paul gave me a terribly puzzled look. "Robert Wyatt?"
"Robert Wyatt. He was popular in the sev----"

Then I realised that this may not even be the 70's. Maybe I was enjoying the multi-dollar pleasure of talking to a 60's-Paul McCartney.  (WOWS....)

I shrugged.
"He's a cool guy with cool music. You'd like him, he's like a living artform of one of those pictures snipped out of 'Sgt.Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band'."
"Psychedelic, I see."
"Like a pantalone....in striped pants, sky-blue and canary yellow. With a stalk on his head."
"Stalk....a carrot." Paul beamed.
We were a funny bunch.

"Merry Christmas Paul," I mumbled. I adored his young and snug face for an eternity of a second. "Paul....."
"Yeah?"
"...Just live? Please, just live."
Paul gave me a huge-sunshine-blazing smile, and sneezed like a hurricane.

Multiple encounters were met between the two sets of corridors, parallel conversations making their way through the walls, beneath the Earth's surface....

In one corridor;
"I rated those too harshly. I was, you know.... out of my mind then."
"Oh yeah, I couldn't bear to release mine either!"


In another;
"Your report. Is it coming?"
"Well, uh.....sort of, I'd say...."
"Don't look at me so sheepishly, just tell me..."


*        *         *         *

I was driving down the left of a three-lane road. The middle lane was a bypass.
It was surely a thrilling nightmare.
I cranked up my seat lever about 6 times before my face could peer out of the dashboard. I didn't remember anything I'd learned in driving school. Cars were zooming by, one actually confronting me from head first----seconds later, I barely managed to swerve two lanes to the right. I'm not doing anything right....   

Some moments later, all is good. I'm on top of everything; my hand is steady, my gaze is held. The car chaos never learns to cease, but it's okay.

Nothing much had changed.
It was just me.


*       *       *        *

My teacher, back two years.
Whatever I said, he averted it.

It nearly spoke to me.
But those words blurted out were still undeciphered by the human age.

I'd unloaded a heap of happiness in midair...

Was he pedaling the bike, or not? I was always behind him, stuck together like two pieces of old cardboard craft..but somehow, I don't remember just clearly how we'd gotten there.

A fence. A medium high fence, chunky, made from fine brass. An artwork, it must've been--then it got lost among these countless thoughts, these uninturruptable countless thoughts....

"Up!" he said, and saddled over this metal object.
"I heard she got the announcement," I said, the words coming from the back of my throat. It didn't belong to me; it just came. "Aren't you going to go back soon?"
Something in the far horizons caught his eye. Slowly, he went over to the other side.
He gave me the most curious stare. And; "C'mon."
I soon joined him.

We rode out into the distance without much talk.
Then there began a series of alleys--a labyrinth in this tiny corner of the world.
An underground labyrinth it was, though somehow we never dug deep enough to go under.

Some friends of ours were already waiting. There was light shining like a true silver medal, its rays hovering over their hair. Bits of conversation were exchanged, fickle and miniscule as cookie crumbs.
The tunnel-like passage was long like a pencil, never turning and absolutely never ending. 2 of them sat, far away from eachother. The alley smelt like ancient smoke and velvet, with a hint of something burning.
"Wood chips melting?" someone asked.
"Oh," I suddenly said, "Wood chips."
"What?"
"I remembered this a long time ago."
"What did you remember?"
"This...."

The earth started to rumble and treble. We were inside a zoo, a crash, a saxophone tune! The ceilings were crumbling, falling apart.
Just like that scene from 'Spirited Away'....except there was no hussle of any sort, we were all in a mixed kind of outrageous vanity,
we knew it.

"95-70-45-20," he said, "my family's business goes down to this like me. Printing cards....truly useless, truly..so here I am at 20, about to embark on this boredom."

School. She beamed as she smacked her Chemistry paper against someone's desk.

"I got a ONE HUNDRED!" she shouted.
Some people gawked. Others applauded.
I wasn't there--I was thinking about something stuck in my back, a big red panel with blueish glue glopping down. It felt like a gigantic sticky starfish.

"Fish..." I exclaimed. 
"I got a ONE HUNDRED!" she shouted.

The theme was supermarket. We were all aligned, waiting for the bathroom to clear up. The buses had gone on an unexpected strike, and our bodies felt like lumps of coal as we dragged our feet to our stools. I somehow fainted along the way--but nobody took much notice. I jolted upwards and resumed walking; was I only pretending to faint?

Many people kept on congratulating me. I smiled.

I went outside, saw that I'd come out on the most familiar street in the city. Humming, I started to walk home. Then I reckoned I'd forgotten my camera in one of the stools, so I made a quick turn and went back.

The entire city was then wiped out by a massive, beautiful song.

I couldn't make it in time--my suitcase was far from being completely packed, its contents sprawled all over the bedspread. Such funky little garments; tens and hundreds of vintage buttons, headsets, stereo plugs, pom poms, green furry balls wrapped in cellophane, ginger snaps, bits of magnificent metal screws. I have no idea what made me spread them all over again, but one thing for sure, I just had to pack and had to leave.

ASAP.

Yet I couldn't get packing, no matter what.

Something was creeping from up behind me, I just knew. Creeps Creeps Creeps...
Then everything was brutally revealed--the same icy feeling spiralling down my spine.

Those shouts; those admirations!

*        *        *        *

I was too eager not to talk to him, but there wasn't much of an amiable conversation between us anyway. I reckoned that a long time ago...

"What happens if I don't make it in time?" I asked.
"You fall," he mumbled. "You fall fall fall until there's nothing left no more."
"Now, I'm here. Packing. All along this too familiar dialogue we must have shared some minutes ago------no, wait a minute-----last night!"

So this was a comeback of that scenario. The way I said 'waaaait a minute....' struck me as oddly familiar as well. As if someone, a friend, a long-lost buddy, was speaking through me like a see-through boombox..

"Dance with me?"
I nodded. "No."

I kept thinking of a scene that triggered something about...lettuce.
Lettuce-meat wrapped dishes.
And I didn't want to go back there anymore.

*        *         *         *

2 scenarios rolled side-by-side in the direction of ambivalence.
How on earth am I supposed to assemble the truth from there?

Glitter, fine--- choosing the right type of present with my Dad.
In an unfamiliar department store, set ready for another Christmas yet to come.
He chooses red; I chose silver. We decide.

Then I felt unbelievably good!

I was in a foreign land, a very foreign land indeed.

*      *       *       *
Killing time meant spending countless hours around closed coffee shops, merchandise, gift shops. Daytime was a nightmare--the sun was falling, shattering, glistening in wild colours.
We were once all evacuated into a large ballroom. A series of tsunami were evolving right before my eyes, as my mum endlessly chattered on about kitchenware. Nobody noticed how endangered we had become until the first of the series striked the full glass windows, water gushing through from the rubber seams.
Someone screamed.

*       *       *       *

Our way of travelling was usually by car. My dad drove me through a familiar arcade, only to find myself getting questioned by one of his friends (who'd chosen this moment to question me like an authority...), then I went over to my red car and met my maths teacher.

"You drive?" he asked, doubtfully.
"Yes." I answered without much thought. "Do you want me to drop you off somewhere?"

Only it wasn't my car. It was a red taxi---I'd gotten in before I knew it was a mistake.
"Sorry," I said, "Ah--oh well, can we carpool? He needs a ride." I nodded towards my maths teacher.
"Afraid not," the driver replied, "And you, you've got time?"
He then blasted off into infinity, my mind left swept away in some odd new dimension.

*    　 *    　 *     　*

And then there was Lily, who looked just like Yoko Ono.

I think it was Yoko anyway.

She drove the tiniest cool gadget, something like in between a Jaguar and a Mustang, its beatle-like surface glittering black. Whenever someone abruptly meantioned words like "rich", "lavish", "ridiculously pompous", she'd come roaring down, her car swerving all over the place.
One of the doors was always open when that happened; Lily always saved me.

After the taxi driver had plopped me off on a stranded highway, I somehow managed to find my way back to the arcade. Then I heard a great deal of swishing and revving and screeching, and found Lily waiting for me.

"Get in!" she shouted, "What on earth are you standing there for?"
Everything happened all so quick whenever I was with her--the next moment, we were blitzing through the street life, the night hanging way behind us.

"Lily? Can I ask you a favour?"
"Anything, just about anything," was her usual remark.
"I need some sunshine."
She looked at me with a comical, puzzled smile. "Sunshine?"

Two cakes were brought by the postman, both stuck on a white linen pillow.
One was a cherry-jello tart; the other, a strawberry cheesecake.
"Gifts." the postman muttered.
"From whom?"
"A woman."

There was a card;
"I suggest you come to the airport."

I then had a telephone call, which was abruptly silenced by darkness.

*     *     *     *

Dad, Mum, and I, at a red wooden deck table out on the terrace.
It was the restaurant scene at night, from Fellini's "Rome". Only it was in the bright afternoon.
A man and his gang sat on an open terrace by some apartments high up, and waved his wine glass at us.

We were meant to spray bits of petroleum all over our finished dishes--it was a task.
"But we're not going to do it." I stated. My Dad, however, looked quite unsure about it.
"Are you sure...?" he started, "I think we're going to be in trouble. Big trouble."
The man hollered over at us to start working.

Then the man threw his wine glass, making a clean hit on someone's baby carriage.
My Dad was furious. "No, I will not spray petroleum.....ever."

But in the end, a girl came over and sprayed petroleum all over our rusty table.
Someone lit a cigarette.

Nothing much happened.

The sky was cloudy, without a hint of anyother colour than the palest gray.

I thought I would see a whole night sky shimmering with bits of stars.
I thought wrong.

*    *    *    *

I met a friend on the way to my meeting.
I always expect to meet someone. Someone yes, but never do I meet her.
Now I do.

She is.... surprised!

Another familiar hotel it was.
It had red velvet carpets spread all over its interiors, stretching from corner to corner, even draping from the banisters. In fact, it was quite ambushed in red; only the golden doors of the elevator had the realm of reality, only I knew it was a dream. The building was a paradox. I always couldn't get to the 3rd floor, no matter which route I took.

Someone was calling me from the 4th floor. The elevator only went up to 2. I had to swerve all round the first block of buildings to reach a flight of stairs, then, toppling over some Christmas decorations, I found myself lost in a corridor of fountains. The fountains sprouted water silently, as if something were going to happen.
It reminded me of the lobby--the lobby of The Ministry of Magic of course.

I half expected someone to come tumbling out from the shadows.

*       *       *

Roaming about the garden(of the hotel) as usual, I looked at my watch and saw it was already ten past four. I had a plane leaving at four thirty; I didn't want to rush, but I had company waiting for me to start leaving. (we were going somewhere in a group of 4 or 5). So I sprinted back to my hotel room, only to find one of them lying quite still on the stony surface of the front lobby. Her reflection on the luminous floor was magical, and the fountains were falling ever so silently.

Suddenly the lights went on. ---Were they off?
She spoke. "We had to leave. We had to leave, but James Crocket forgot his suitcase in Berlin."
"James?" I repeated. "Which....which James?"
"Crooocket." she croaked.
"Oh. Crocket. Right. And.....so....."
"But we are leaving, you know. We are." she pressed. "But I just seem to like it here, stuck on the floor."
I shrugged. "I know. It makes you feel like you're lingering on the edge."
"I missed the edge..." she batted her eyes furiously. "Oh, wait, I know. I know, I know. I know."
"Yes?"

"You're the edge." she said.

In the dead of the night, someone was packing their suitcase in a frenzic rush.
Tattered socks of every colour were sprawled all over the bed sheets, along with bits of old newspapers and other kinds of everyday rubbish.
He stopped. Someone was coming in. He rushed into the bathroom, closed the door and waited.

He had a crimson ticket in his hand, which he now stared with feverish excitement (hadn't he noticed it before?). Someone called his name through the door and sighed. A great thump, followed by a skiiiiid suggested someone sitting by the foot of the door, waiting for him to come out. Or answer.

Our protagonist went over to the sink, slowly started to tear the ticket into eighths; then, out of the blue, started shredding them like mad. As if someone had clicked a certain switch in his body.

Then dawn fell. Everything was still, only the sound of the running fridge humming in the dim room.
Nobody came in; nobody came out.

That familiar hotel with a pungent air of tainted leather.
My bed was atop a loft (a falling-apart gallery that is, the type of gallery where it'd be jammed with people overlooking the stage as in Les Enfants du Paradis). My bed was going to collapse any minute now. It's got bed bugs all over; its wooden body is just barely holding itself together. A lumpy, oddly-dusty mattress was hung over it like a corpse, suggesting no sense of comfort.

It is the hotel that reappears in my dreams frequently these days; yet, I didn't notice this until tonight, as I felt a strong sense of recognition being in this scene.
Naturally, this hotel is not populated at all. It is falling apart like a terrible ghost shack,
and I have all my intentions to leave but I simply can not.

The smell is so distinctive, I just can't.

*        *        *

Facing the busiest, most car-populated street ever, there is a 2 story building with its walls made from glass. Heavy beige curtains made from camel's skin are draped all over, ceasing the killer-sunshine from pouring into the room.
I am in the bed at the corner, my curtains opened just slightly so as I can see the view.
There is no view.
"I'm waiting for my rocket," I say, and someone replies, "But how do you make the rocket?"
The room shakes, racking up the city into shredding bits.

I had written a sonnet about forgiveness.

I didn't like it though.

There was a psychiatrist who had the most simple office in a simple building. I stumbled in there by accident.
On the board by the windows, 15 names were scrawled in the same handwriting. One of them had a small exclamation mark beside it. All had the words "confession" lined up to the right, and had semi-detached pieces of Post Its to the right. As I flip one over to see, 8 words greet me;
fusion  worrisome  heartache  divorce  particular  ride  why?  testify
They are all jotted down in a hurrisome, fierce manner.

The Post Its flutter in the air as someone shuts the door. I stand facing the wall, determined not to look back for some reason.
I think of Dorian Gray--I think he has come to fetch something.

*      *      *

Husband and wife sit in the Opera, with their little girl in between. Her eyes are a shade of clear gray, and her face is filled with intense secrecy; her lips are shut tight, but curve a smile now and then. She is about 5 years old. Her father lays down a crumpled brown paper bag by his feet.
"Oh, why the bag Dad? I'm never going back to ballet!" she exclaims, looking at the bag her father had brought back with him. "I don't think it's necessary at all."
There are probably some  leotards and silk slippers sleeping in the bag. Her father shrugs,"Well I can't afford to pay again if you ever decide you want to go back--and that is, after the summer holidays I daresay--after all we had to quit now in April, because the administrator wanted to keep his books straight for the upcoming seasons."
"But Dad," she calmly states, "I have no intention whatsoever of going back. It's going to cost me, and I'm afraid I can't excite myself with ballet anymore; it hurts, it's lonesome, and it's absolutely boring."
"Ennui..." her father mumbles.

Now they are in their summer garden, by a tree of oranges. The air smells like wet honeydew and cardboard.
"Dad, I thought I'd pick some of these," the girl says, pointing at the oranges, "But now that I've thought it over, I think we should pick those," and she points to a different clump of trees in the corner. "These are not organic, I'm afraid."
The father looks worried. "Dear," he begins, "Why are you always soaked in such seriousness? Why don't you go have some fun, kill time reading books and drawing pictures of fancy princesses like any girl surely loves to do?...Here, let me take your basket. Run along now."
The girl says nothing, but slowly puts down her basket on the wet grass. She is wearing ballet slippers. As she starts walking back towards the house, something seems to have caught her eye in the woods. Just as her father turns round to look at the other orange tree she'd pointed out, she sprints through the grass and rustles into the dark shade of trees.
Like a rabbit.

My mum keeps popping up a lot these days!

I didn't remember seeing her as I entered.
I thought I was entering with two of my best friends, one marching before me and the other lagging behind. We were in a shop, a jammed-crammed one with everything you could ever think of.

A whole selection of cowboy boots, phoney glasses, Stylish Shimmering Scarfs("3 for 2!"), glasses of ice tea, empty lip stick containers, quiant fluffy items scattered all across the floors, stuffed geese(hmm?), cherry bottles, diet coke posters with stashes of old Marvel Comics, Snickers(just the wrappers for some reason), a heap of green and purple Chuck Taylors, peach scented body lotion, Mr&Mrs Potato figurines, cosmetic manuals from the late 80's featuring a woman in pin-up curls all over, an arrangement of denim fabrics, colourful feathered hats, etc, etc.....the Harajuku-like craftiness made me wince, just a little.
It was quite blemish.

We lost our tagging friend and I followed my precedator--it was no more the insides of an anonymous shop, but in a miserable patch of the woods. It was haunted.
Someone sneezed.
I felt nothing equivalent of the wonder Lucy must've felt (in the chronicles of Narnia)
I just wanted to go further,
and transport myself a million light years away.

We ended up reaching a wall. We were in the shop again, but in an extremely mousey corner.
It was dusty, old, and murky.
I thought of saying something, but thought better.
My friend then peeled open the wall, like she'd peel an avocado: a slit in the middle, the skin coming apart. I chose to hurridly follow for no good reason--possibly because I was curious.

(Come to think of it, all my dreams are based on my actions deriving from curiosity....)

I wasn't supposed to be here, I now realised.
My friend swerved around, looking extremely aghast.
"Why are you in here?" she slowly growled. It turns out she wasn't who I thought she was.
She was another of my good friends--someone who I can't meet as daily.
"I thought I was to come alone."
"Well....." I thought.

There were 5,6 girls in the room, all looking at pictures and gathered round a great white table.
It was cheerful; the lights probably did the trick.

Dressing rooms always look nice.

We were all aligned, waiting to board the boat.
A most peculiar, charming friend was assigned right behind me. My heart leapt.

Funny how friends can make you feel....just by being there.

These streets were too familiar.
There was the Marunouchi crossing, by the Coach store on the corner. It is where the sightseeing bus tours seemingly take off--I, however, have yet to see one.
There was a road beyond this that run parallel to it. I've never seen such a thing here. It looked crowded, grimy, and stale, like the east outskirts of Shibuya. I knew this street, but it certainly did not belong here. It was as if someone had patched up my sense of direction into this big, messy handicraft.
I crossed the main street on bike, cars zooming past me at the speed of light. I came out alive on the other side, and headed towards the street.
It stunk. As soon as I turned the corner, I saw the buildings were still iconically Marunouchi (their silver bodies glistening in the sun like fish). Yet I smelled rubbish. A whole outrageous heap.  There was an undeniable disturbance in the air, that did not cooperate with its surroundings. I was completely lost.
In a flash, I was in the middle of a highway junction. It was Roppongi, but not the Roppongi I knew (There was never a monsterous concrete conglomerate here--was there?) It was a heap of garbage. I biked. I weaved through a river of cars to reach the top, but I had no intention of doing so. It seemed as if reaching the top was the only way to go somewhere else.
My nose was blasted and stunned with an extremely hazardous smell. It was supposedly chemical waste in my interpretation. Warning sirens shrilled in my mind as my nose refused to accept this smell. It was absolutely horrible, one of the worst, pungent smells imaginable. "Gold Kryptonite...." I mumbled. (ought to wipe out Superman for good).

I went on anyway, clutching my wobbling head through this sea of absolute horror. Then, before I reached a pinnacle of any kind, I was zooming down the conglomerate like a crazed animal. The slim, maroon  road went round, round, round the conglomerate, like a risky roller coaster. It wasn't lean enough as to throw me head first off my bike. But the scale of its enormity and spontaneity made me jumpy and excited all over. I knew it, my bike was going to die. It wasn't strong enough to handle this massive road project.I was shooting down like a cosmic rocket ball, soaring through with my bike almost unstoppable. The wheels weren't turning; they were too slow.
I was practically whizzing down.

I remembered my aunt lived in an apartment in Roppongi (no, not really).
"I wonder how she does this every morning," I thought, "And not telling me a word about it!"

I was on a mission, an espionage more likely.
There was my boss, a gruesomely-fiendish man, who always demanded I take the most treacherous routes to my destined destination (I like that word). Yet he was lusciously charming.
Sometimes I question what I find in certain men. Oh... lots of times.


I was climbing a slim, horrifying caracole. It was draped in dusty red velvet, and looked like a forgotten page from a Reader's Digest magazine--a shred of melancholy history. Featuring The Good Ol' Greenwich Apartment from a 50's sitcom, it was most cleverly London in every touch. It was where ketchup would be considered as a fine alternative for tomato sauce. It was where the Ice Cream trolleys would always miss, and where kids would be snarled at for "causing a great deal of noise". It was where you'd find a 2 year old Mars Bar wrapper squished between the sofa cushions.
It was devastatingly depressing, and conveyed a certain sense of murkiness: one that would continuously haunt you throughout the day. (Imagine all your Christmas presents wrapped in William Morris...THAT kind of murkiness.) And given that piece of "evidence", I was convinced that I had to go up those ridiculously lean caracoles. Or a half-caracole, I'd say.

It was so lopsided, flap jacked, twisted, and blurred, it wasn't your typical caracole at all. And I kept tumbling as I went up, my head spinning around like silver discs. Something glittered in my eye before I saw a heap of melted chocolate covering everything in place. I remember I screamed, but got warm, murky chocolate gushing inside my mouth at once. I didn't have much time or sensibility to shut it tight as more chocolate came pouring in. I had to tell my boss; I waded through the vast brown mellowness and caught his shirt collar, just in time to save him from drowning.

"Sir. We have a problem, and I'm not quite sure whether I can proceed."
He looked straight through me. "You can. You will."
"Ah," I thought. "The magic word!"
If I say the magic word, I can go home.
"The magic word, the magic word..." I mumbled.
My boss drowned. And all went completely dark and blue.

"The chocolate got angry at us....." someone whispered in my ear.

"They have a stadium where they grow hair", was the last thing I heard.

I wasn't supposed to be there, and I definitely wasn't supposed to be alive.
There were 4 quilted, big, magnificent beds sprawled out like they were one bed together. It was very messy, in a pleasantly welcoming way. Like the insides of a tent. There was a stretch of virgin wood in front of me, like the floorboards of a treehouse, and I was facing a somewhat-dining room.
It was the best dining room in the world: the ceilings were up high, masked lamps hanged about, there were trees drooping their branches down everywhere. There was a large coffee machine in the back of the room, near the counters with endless stocks of old books. There were two chummy sofas for morning reading, and there was a kaleidoscopic window-dome overhead that let you see the most mysterious clouds forming about. The view was quite ominous, like something you'd see from Solomon's tower (Lord of the Rings) But it was intriguing nevertheless.

I sensed someone coming, probably a grizzly bear or a man. He was coming from the corner, far far away, and made himself some coffee. He looked more like a grizzly bear. I had to stay still, slowly let a book droop out of my limp hand, and pretend I was asleep. Everything suggested that I wasn't supposed to meet this bearish person in full contact. I let the pages flutter and my breathing go heavy, and I was quite impressed with how good I can fake sleep.
Then the grizzly bear(I was right) came over on two legs, walking like a man(so I was half right). His coffee mug was small compared to his rugged body. He noticed me from three feet away, and kept distance. He sipped his coffee thoughtfully.

I switched over to playing dead.
He was satisfied.
He went away.

*          *           *

The next scene was in my "mother's room"--though I've never seen the room my whole life--and here I was free from bears and coffee, it seemed. It was cold. Outside it was snowing, reminding me of those anonymous snowy New York mornings I know so well. The room was still and lifeless, though the unmade beds indicated some form of life had been there.

It was a gorgeous room, and the scent was irresistably mesmerizing. It was, perhaps, a mix of cherry, rosewood, burned cinnamon, a whiff of smoke, rough honey, and something very exquisite. Nothing hit me as exotic, yet the combination was exotic as ever.
There were 7 beds in this one, the beds aligned like cots. The pillows were facing front but the bed itself was aligned sidewise...it was an odd sight. The pillows looked perfect and had interesting frills on them, reminding me of a ravioli. The beds were draped in magenta, rouge, dark chocolate/mahogany brown, and had a special aura not daring me to take one step closer.

Three of the beds were unmade, one of them just slightly messy.
It seems there were 2 people sleeping in this room--one of them first thought of sleeping 2 beds away from the other, but thought better, and slept 3 beds away.

An interesting relationship.

They all wore strange woolly sweaters, the ugliest ones I've yet to see.
4 women were gathered. They formed a circle too tight for a possible 5th guest to squeeze in. They were mindlessly bickering on and on and on and on...


"What is that dish, anyway? I don't see the point of it."
"Really."
"I agree with you on every little term possibly imaginable."
"It's so senseless."
"And worthless."
"And difficult."

One had black, bushy hair. But it wasn't messy as it sounds.
One had thin, blonde hair. But it was messier than it sounds.
I don't remember the other two.
They were talking about cooking a special dish, it seemed. It'd upset the four of them so much, to the point where they all couldn't spare the tiniest shred of reconsideration.

The scene was a classroom in an elementary school. The women looked like they were in charge of the PTA, now that they started flashing badges with their names stamped on. I couldn't read any of their names, because they kept throwing their hands frantically about.
The whole situation was messy anyway.

Then a 5th figure emerged from the blackboard, somehow.
At first she was just a small graffiti, drawn carelessly by a child. Then she just collected her lines and curves and stepped out, fully formed. But none of the ladies found that quite amazing. The 5th figure looked full of authority as she made the most pompous entrance ever.
The 4 women instantly hushed and turned around, their faces full of enormous concern.
"We were talking about the annual dish, the special one." the one with black, bushy hair said. She tossed her head round like she was talking to her lover or something. "And," she continued, "We all agreed that it takes too much time, too much space, and too much of our precious handiwork (her accent was simply ridiculous). So we suggest we stop making it each year."
With that the black, bushy haired woman glared and silently hissed (yes)at the 5th figure, as if it were going to start snapping at her. The 5th figure was actually the teacher. Her name tag reads MS.WOODSBURY-TEACHER.

I have no idea who Ms. Woodsbury is.

The black, bushy haired woman tossed her head again. She is quite rude. She and her girlfriends look like teenagers in the face of Ms. Woodsbury--not merely implying that she is old, but focusing more on the aura that she suggestfully emits.
We know Ms. Woodsbury is not meant to be messed around; the head-tossing woman surely does not realize that.
"I mean," she exclaims, "It's so non-efficient.(Ms. Woodsbury flinches here, very slightly, as she thinks inefficient) We only buy carrots once an year for that particular dish, and it's such a waste. We all agree right?" and her girlfriends support her with silly nods.
They really are a bunch of teenagers.

Ms. Woodsbury is suddenly all business.

"That dish is not meant to be overlooked at."
The black, bushy haired woman tosses her head. "But---"
Ms. Woodsbury gives her a look so sharp that she thinks twice about inturrupting. But we know she can't keep quiet for long...she has to say something!
"As I said," Ms. Woodsbury continues,"That dish has great meaning to us all. The school, the community, the principal. What would the principal eat if he loses that dish? (We imply that the principal here is on a year-long hunger strike, something so common that we dare not inturrupt) "That dish," Ms. Woodsbury presses--as the black, bushy haired woman is apparently looking so frantic we fear she is going to burst--"Is a tradition."

With that very word, the 4 women shrieked and vanished.
Just like those witches from Macbeth.

There was a menagerie spread in front of me, and I had to choose which animal to eat.
We were seperated by a thick, dirty sheet of glass. They were arranged like a FAO Schwartz Xmas display.
There was one blue, ugly looking fish.
It had a yellow horn sticking out of its forehead, like it belonged there all along(but it was clearly so wrong)
It must've been living 20,000 leagues under the sea and hoarded over here by Jules. It was daunting, heavy, and definitely inedible.
There was a tag popping out near the fish, claiming it was a A Living National Treasure--though it looked quite dead--come to think of it, the whole menagerie was not breathing at all.
I was facing a taxidermist's collection.
I gave the fish one last look, and moved on to the next set of displays. The glass was illuminated, as if a great big lightbulb was shining it from behind. Light was pouring out. Yet, there was no such light. (Lumos!)
I was fronted with a sea of dishes. All looked considerably good. It seemed as though I had to choose some from here for our family dinner.
I was attracted to one particular dish, which looked like a crossover between a paella and a gratin--it was undoubtfully a paella, but for some reason I couldn't let go of the gratin idea. It had visible amounts of green peas, squid, lots of turmeric, curry powder, onions, and red delicious looking vegetables.

It was the dish I'd been looking for. For some reason I thought my mum would love it as well.

I heard much commotion behind me, like pans clashing and utensils being cleansed. I turned round and found my father busily working in an elephantine island kitchen, as if he were in a patisserie competition. Only he was cooking the very dish I was looking at, and a porcini risotto(another I'd favoured), and also squid arrabiatta(why so much squid?)

"Dad? Why are you cooking?...Do we have to cook these for ourselves?"(somehow the possibility did not seem completely outrageous, just mildly annoying that we had to cook our own food at this gigantic restaurant)
"Yes. What else do you want?" he said, rushing to meet the paella plate with his heap of freshly diced onions and peppers.
"No, that was what I wanted anyway." I replied. Then I noticed a plate of spaghetti carbonara, something I've never eaten and likely never will.
"Dad," I said, "I'm sorry to bother you but you've chosen the wrong dish."
He glanced at it, and nodded. My, it was half eaten already, now that I clearly focus on it.
"Did you have a bite of it already?" I joked.
"No," he snapped. "Someone else couldn't finish it so they left it for us to re-cook."
"Oh," I said, somehow perfectly convinced. "So it's free, right?"

Then he looked at me straight in the eye, and said, "NO!"

The man is endlessly making falafels. His hands flip non stop, falafel after falafel.
He does this to make a living for his little son. He lost his wife some time ago (he showed me her photo), and he's flipping falafels day after day in hope his son gets better education than him.
Or something like that.
He looks like a sleepy, dazed wolf, with gray wispy hair but all the more handsome. He's quite jaded, and wears an expression of mellow fatigue. But he's not exasperated at all with the way life is going--rather, something of greater value is occupying his thoughts. A bigger reason, covered in faint mystery.

The following scene, we see him on a boat with a few of his closest mates. The boat is patrolling the Thames, the murky brownish waters making me nostalgic all over. 
The boat's tail lights are flickering, and the men's flourescent orange life jackets are quite a scene. They even look conspicuous in this gloomy weather.
His mates have probably invited him aboard hoping he'll catch on to some better job--other than flipping falafels to earn his daily expenses, that is.
He, however, looks full of dazed apathy as he stares down the coastline with the most forlorn expression.
Our protagonist is one serious introvert.

A fancy looking cruise boat shuffles through, bypassing our patrol crew. They weren't supposed to do that (for some reason), as the crew start shouting instructions to each other and make way to front the cruiser. The small boat gains speed at once, and swerves right in front of the cruise boat, its decks packed with people.
Packed Like Sardines In A Crushed Tin Box.
In French: Compactés Comme Des Sardines Dans Une Petite Boite Ecrasée.  LushGlam.

The scene was reminiscent of The Godfather Part II, where young Don Corleone is being shipped off to New York with thousands of other Italian immigrants.
Off to Ellis Island.
The cruise boat looked quite posh at first sight, but no, it was far from that. There was a mob on there, not a group of champagne tourists.

The two boats are now so close, that their bodies are slightly intact. The patrol boat is facing the mob, our protagonist at the very tip of it. Like the Titanic. Only he was alone, sad, and had this unbelievable gleam in his eye--that suggested a warrior of some sort.
The crowd must've sensed that, and there starts much commotion. We are suddenly swirled into a heated conflict. The man stays still, even as the crowd starts to pelt tiny bullets straight at him. But somehow, I knew that he was good enough to be defeated here. He remained unscathed, boldly standing there like a monolith.
Then the crowd pulls out thirty or so of those Arabian swords from The Lawrence of Arabia, and swings them at the man at full speed. He manages to grip them all in one hand, and then, turns them all straight at his heart.
He is not immortal. He dies.

Then I realize I'd been watching this on YouTube, as I scroll down to read the comments. Somehow I find a comment by Agyness Deyn, not ever once doubting its authencity.
She says something like:

People, it's FAKE. For Christ's sake....how can you actually believe this?
This is one bloody heck of a JOKE. It makes me NAUSEOUS.
The tabloids. OH the tabloids...make fun of me all you want, yes everything you say is true.
I'll confirm it. On Saturday night, I went out with who and who. TRUE
I throw random tantrums on YouTube. TRUE
Are you happy now?
Does anybody know how much the government is imposing on us? Those taxes?
Bye!

I have nothing against Agyness anyway.

Then I read a comment directly below that, from an insider's point of view(supposedly)

It's a JOKE. It's so funny when you look at it here from South Africa....
I know those people on board. My neighbours. They don't do all that warrior stuff, apparently.
This is a guise to pose that war-hero ish whatever guy as good.
What a joke. It's funny, but does everyone really get it?

Then I woke up.