13th December 2018
I travel in the backseat of a dream. Shadows loom in space and time. This sleeping night, this world without man.
The peaceful darkness where I wander meeting personalities who could be real. Who talk and unravel in a developing film, who show me pictures cut out of other peoples dreams. Who show me the roads I came from and the roads I’m on. This is better, they say. Has it a basis in reality, we will see, you and me, in a dream.
I travel in the backseat of a dream, so clear, so close, so near that I can feel. I want to know, and I wonder, as the dream rolls out its quiz of conundrums.
The man in a battle, with war all around can dream of angels, while the wealthy man in a great tower can dream of walking down a dark and dangerous corridor.
A dream can last for years. A problem that you cannot get into focus. A barricade of broken things that stops you dreaming of great worlds.
Is the visitor in your dream a real visitor with another life outside of your own, are they all real people, those that people your dreams, who unravel the schemes of the nuaghty world.
I travel in the backseat of a dream. A limousine, or a bus. Teach me the wheel of life, teach me the gears; that a ticket has a price. Is this my dream now, has the insurance paid off and what of this cough . . . . .
or that man with a gun, or that blazing sun.