Haysi Fantayzee

I am writing on a yellow pad, all that I have just dreamed.

I am at a bank. I am trying to make a withdrawal. The woman behind the counter is incompetent and can’t communicate. She refuses to give me my money. I shout and create a scene. There’s a queue behind me. She closes the bank and leaves. I follow her home, at a distance, I am full of anger.

A woman speaks to me. She points out my appearance. I am filthy. My hands are covered with green, chemical residue. I tell her that I experiment with chemicals at home.

I catch my reflection in a window. My hair is long and matted. I look like one of Haysi Fantayzee dragged through a hedge. I rearrange it as best I can, it actually looks quite fashionable, I decide.

I return to the bank. At the back is a room I can access with my card. As the door slides open, I realise the door is one of two concentric circular walls, rotating until the gaps line up to allow entry. Like a primitive lock.

I step into the circular room. At the centre, bounded by two smaller semi circular walls, is a circular table. The top is a screen. A Japanese woman appears on it and asks how she can help. I check my balance. I’m overdrawn by -Β£3.44.

This annoys me. I wanted money to get drunk.

Others join me in the bank. The light changes to a uv blue. Someone is chasing me. I become a megalomaniac.

I am outside again, at a train station.
A guy is doing parkour and tells me to jump. I fly. I feel like I’m cheating. I fly low, simulating skateboard movements across the landscape

We go to get a train.

I write many dreams on a yellow pad.



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