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.