In a house with a miniature theatre, sitting restless, full of yellow-dust air and the warm creaking of old wood, built where there should have been a foyer, the crowd gathers on the teak steps. A cat claws its way to the underside of a balcony and hides, hanging upside down beneath well-fed asses. People lean and shush in an attempt to be a good audience to a nonexistent show.
A train, only two cars long but with a huffing and grinding coal-burning engine comes to rest in a golden wheat field. There are enemy soldiers gathered there and the best sneaking is insufficient to elude them.
A party full of the diseased: the addicted, the twisted, the pathetic, carries on in a sad mixture of desperation and idolatry. As my fellow and I do our best to escape there approaches a woman who has long harbored a sick obsession with him. He reviles her but she persists. The diseased psyche attempting to latch onto him creates in him a hatred for existence and he leaves everything to wander the streets.
Snippets of dreams.