Cherry blossom hiccups float heaven bound where caterpillars graduate into butterflies that pollinate magic dingoes outback of the Taco Bell which rings every time an angel forgets his wings and falls to earth soft as a snowflake. In the hollow darkened hush strange spectral hobos panhandle for dreams in the cool electric machinery of night. They sell sea shells in the pink of dawn when our heads are as open as pillar boxes stuffed with letters addressed to nowhere. While the birdies drink in the sky, our fleeting thoughts dance around the impossible like rubber balls and bounce off into the improbable distance. We waken with the silk of spiders in our eyes and half remembered melodies in our ears. Our crystalline fancies melt before our innermost eyes and vaporize before we can recognize their shapes. Another world beckons, other voices call our names, back to a place no-one can ever speak of; at least while they are sane. What is that phantom memory that hangs before us – invisible – intangible in the almost here and now, but in the way back when? Why do birds salute the dawn? Where do dreams hide in the day time?
Picture: The Dream, Henri Rousseau, 1910.