There, a cave of huge proportions shrinking into a color. It seems like black coral, but feels like Catawba. My eyes hurting from the sulfur dioxide atmosphere which hazes its own color: eggplant. Everything is green… no, dolphin grey now. Theseus lies, in front of me, naked on the floor after the marathon. He’s wounded, his eyes claret and dark raspberry. Deep jungle green blood pouring out of the whorled mammoth tooth stuck to his sternum. “What are you doing here, Thompson?” he asked. Cut scene, back to blackness.

Indeterminate time lapse. Quickly running down the staircase, I keep seeing on every floor the Art Deco wooden door of Mr. Hood’s apartment. I keep running until I find the exit door leading to the top of the building. The sun is scorching. My contact lenses melt in my eyes and I snarl with the pain of a wolf towards the rising waning crescent moon. Cut scene.

Back to the jungle, a snake called Hugo pole dances around a kauri tree while peeling its skin in full exhibitionistic abandon. Dozens of fluffy rabbits cheer and indulge in the furriest of bacchanals. I feel the urgency to pee as I realize I’m watering the Olympic stadium with a very large hose that I’m holding between the legs.

When I woke up, my bed was wet. Flooded with piss, the small pigs stamped in my underwear looked as they weren’t having fun anymore. I removed them, used the bidet to wash myself, dried the area with a black terrycloth towel and went to sleep on the sofa using the good duck feathers duvet as cover.

After a while, scene one, take two begins: complete blackness in a material-less world. Sounds ranging from eerie to farcical. Mother urges her weeping son to avoid the crossroad outside the corn fields. I now realize I’m looking at the walled city of Ávila from the old N-110 Road. The comfortable sense of geographical recognition makes the gnome of Girona sitting at my shoulder an enjoyable company. “Should we go in? I think we should go in. Let’s go in,” he says. We start to move towards the city, but our feet aren’t moving in regular walking fashion. Two steps with the right foot, one twice the length with the left one. The mother keeps yelling at the kid while we totter towards the end of the road: “don’t you dare crossing that road, boy!” As soon as we reach the city, I reckon that there’s a huge swimming pool inside occupying most of the space and that everyone is naked.

“Come on in, stranger carrying a featherless parrot,” says the middle age woman with perfect puffy breasts.
“I’m not from here,” I reply.
“None of us are,” she says, “we are pilgrims, we’re heading to Canterbury.”

I start to take off my clothes and the gnome of Girona falls to the tiled floor. “Forget him,” she says. I remove every bit of clothing and the bearded man approaches me with a Catawba colored condom. “Get it up,” he said. While I’m checking Facebook, a notification arrives saying that violent riots erupted in Walla Walla, WA, and are spreading across the whole Interstate 90. I post a Facebook update with a witty remark about it which I instantly forgot. I won’t be having ritualistic sex now: I want to check if all my friends push ‘like’ in my post.

“Riots! We must leave at once,” cries out the midget!
“But we’re so far away from the riots,” I reply.
“They’ll get here soon enough. We must go. We’ll be safe in Murmansk.”

I hastily start to dress, but Hugo wraps himself around my right leg. “Make love to me now, Thompson,” he implores. I grab Hugo by the head and squeeze him as hard as I can. He orgasms a dark tangerine goo and dies with a smirk that sort of makes him look like a lipless Rachel McAdams.

The sky becomes kaleidoscopic with dark tangerine, black coral and Catawba patterns. I hush the mother, as the boy who is now a girl doesn’t stop crying: it’s of no use to listen to sex-mutant children weeping at the barking of their mothers while we’re trying to get to Murmansk.

“Come,” says my wife, “the rabbits will protect us.”
“I’m so glad to see you, Anahita.”
“Me too, Morgan.”
“Can a man be fully aware that he’s dreaming while he’s dreaming?”
“Of course, that’s called a lucid dream, as described by doctor Frederik van Eeden in his seminal 1913 article, ‘A Study of Dreams’.”
“A Dutch man?”
“A Flying Dutchman.”

I laugh. She can be witty through the worst of times. A lucid dream! I can take control of what is happening. I can ease myself to a dreamless state, I reckon. I need to shut my inner eyes in accordance to the already shut physical ones, or something like that.

I now sit at the platform of the floor where Mr. Hood lives. His beautiful Art Deco door is painted with the goo that poured out of Hugo: “fake news”. He is out of town, in Murmansk, I believe. The hares begin to gather around me, waiting for me to tell the story of how I stayed stranded in an elevator for two days. “The powerless dread of being locked up really gets to you, after a while,” I tell them.

When I woke up, I felt tired. I had to remove the soggy linen out of my bed and carry the bulky mattress to the balcony in order for it to dry out the smell of piss. I got stuck in the elevator more than six years ago, why would it all cascade through my subconscious now?

I heard the gruff honking of Virginia’s car. The kids arrived, my son and my daughter. They would stay for the weekend, as scheduled. It has been like this since the divorce. I got the weekends.

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