It’s been a long day, building frankenstein words out of blocks in front of a television filled with animal suits. Mother’s lullaby fills your world with love as you’re drowned in the daze of exhaustion. On the edge of blackness there’s only a faint smell of alcohol on breath. And then you’re asleep. The moon grows and where darkness falls, imagination fills the void with fantastical beauties, in fact the mystic beings of the eve slide from the ethereal to the material.
Luminous orbs in iridescent lights keep shifting chakra-shades, indigo to yellow. These prestigidations swirl around your swaddled body with a sense of contained urgency. The magic does not sprout from fey godmothers or celestial benefactors, it is an autonomous faceless design that keeps you safe for the gifts that have yet to birth on your breath. The wisps crowd and dance in a bizarre eddy of liquid colour. They nearly swarm, and where they do, they leave ember-trails of tiny phantasmal pictures: possible futures, which rise in their wake, before you wake.
And in the morning you remember dreams that could only be imagined by an ayahuasca-mad shaman, and you’ll try to express them with building blocks with letters on them.
lucklacker 