It was a clear day…too clear I thought. Mother sat in the kitchen and sunlight made her white hair into a halo. I asked her who old she was. Ninety two, she said, knew I was trapped in a dream as she didn’t live that long. By the slow river I saw furniture drift along. Brother said that people who lived downstream went upstream to buy furniture, to save on transport cost they dumped the stuff into the river where relatives, downstream, picked it up. Sometimes they lost a table or a commode but that’s a risk one has to take. I knew this too was a dream, Walked along a soft road, in a forest, but something was wrong there was a strange red light emitting from the trees, now I was trapped inside a painting by a mad Russian artist; luckily I had a flick knife. It is morning, that is I think it is, sometimes the line between reality and the subconscious merges, perhaps yesterday is today.
